Gods & Monsters
by the.subverter
Summary: Miranda raised Jane Shepard from the dead to fight the Collectors. Now she worries the fractured woman is no longer up to the task. Meanwhile, Maya Brooks has absconded from Cerberus with Shepard's clone. The clone was meant for spare parts, but Brooks has other plans. As Shepard tries to recover what she has lost, the clone struggles to find its own identity and purpose.
1. Larva

A/N: Here we are, posting this story yet again. Hopefully this will be the last time. We will not take this story down again.

The struggle with the troll seems to be winding down, as we have him on record as admitting he was faking it. Still, we will remain vigilant until the site admins step in and do something about his copycat account and stolen story. We briefly thought the story had been taken down, but it was just the site being glitchy. It's still there as I write this note.

Many apologies for all the notification emails some of you are receiving. But most importantly, thanks for putting up with all this drama, and special thanks to all those who went to bat for us. You guys fucking rock! Seriously, from the heart, THANK YOU!

Okay, here we go.

* * *

The clone wakes.

Hope Lilium looks it over. The clone is in a panic, gasping for air, arms up, searching.

Brilliant. It lives. Better yet, she beat that bitch Miranda Lawson to the punch. This will be an opportunity to set things right.

There's a medical tray to the side. Hope lifts the injection gun, brushing her fingers over the clone's burning forehead before bringing the injection gun to its neck, aligning it and pulling the trigger. Bam.

It sleeps. Now to take care of loose threads.

Jones, the awkward bastard with the goofy thick mustache comes running in, ironic designer glasses perched at the end of his nose. No one's worn glasses since the twenty-first century. Jones has been excited about the project—excited enough that Hope was able to convince him to break protocol. The clone was supposed to be put in cold storage. "I saw her vitals spike on the monitor!" He stands at the clone's side, looking at it anxiously. "Did you see it? Did you see her move?"

"Yes. Great work." Her interest has nothing to do with scientific curiosity. She's an operative, not an egghead. Jones should never have let her in. Hope takes the gun from the holster at her side, points it at the back of his head and pulls the trigger. It's a more dignified way to go. He would have pissed himself if he had seen the gun. Not that he won't do that as a corpse.

Blood sprays onto the clone's sleeping face, dotting its cheeks and lips, beading on its eyelashes. No one's really born without a bit of blood. With each new death comes life. It's poetic, maybe, but she's never cared for poetry.

* * *

They go on the run and lay low. The clone has Shepard's face, so they go to Horizon where Shepard isn't particularly known. Hope was specific in her demands. The clone was meant to be Shepard's personal chop shop. They didn't want to spend money on it. Hope's grateful now. The fewer implants, the better.

She's careful. She's seen what Cerberus has been playing with and she doesn't like the direction they're going in. You get enough implants and you're not even human anymore. Hope doesn't like the Illusive Man's eyes. He's halfway to being a husk in a suit now.

Hope never met the 'real' Shepard, though there was a close call or two. The Illusive Man entrusted her with creating a series of dossiers – the very same dossiers Shepard is now using to recruit her hit squad. Shepard doesn't know where the dossiers came from. She doesn't know about Hope, any more than she knows she has a clone on the loose.

The clone barely knows how to speak, and for the first few days it pisses and shits itself. It holds utensils awkwardly like a toddler, food spilling from the corners of its mouth, choking on food that isn't cut into small pieces. Hope's afraid she got some mentally challenged version of the Shepard that Miranda Lawson pieced back together. She never wanted children and now she has to read books on potty training when " _Just go to the bathroom and take a shit_ " doesn't suffice.

Hope will be glad when she no longer has to rip the soiled clothing from it and throw it in the shower to spray it down. Something like shame touches the clone's features as scalding water cascades over it. Slowly but surely it's learning to make expressions. Hope smiles faintly. "I've seen you at your worst. Shit washes off."

The clone stares at the wall. It's alive. It's really alive. Her own Frankenstein's monster. The kind that will put humanity first and save the world.

* * *

Eventually, the clone gets the hang of the basics. It becomes accustomed to Hope's voice and follows her around like a baby duck. Hope doesn't grin but she does bear it, feeding it enough so it will keep its musculature as best as it can. There's no doubt it will lose the hardness of its limbs and torso. Its strength will slowly dwindle if Hope doesn't get it on some kind of regimen, soon.

For now the clone is lethargic and ambles more than walks. Hope has to remind herself that this _is_ Shepard. Hope has even more safe houses than she has names. She's vigilant, dimming the lights and closing the windows, keeping an eye on all communications, moving as soon as there's a hint that someone may be onto her, keeping still when she suspects it's a trap.

The clone wears jeans and an old Cerberus sweatshirt that Hope has torn the embroidery from. The clone plays with the loose threads absently but has little to say on their movements and how they spend their days. Hope spends her time managing details on the extranet while the clone watches Alliance recruitment ads on television.

"They stopped using your image," Hope tells it. She doesn't get any response except for the clone turning its head to look at her, much the way a puppy would at a high pitched whistle in the distance. It doesn't know what it is. "Are you tired? I thought two years would be more than enough sleep."

The clone sits at the opposite end of the couch from Hope, pulling its legs up to itself. Hope stares at it before returning to her datapad. Eventually the clone lies down, its head nearly touching Hope's thigh. Hope makes a face, wondering how long the thing will remain useless and childlike.

The clone falls asleep, breathing softly. The room is cool but Hope doesn't get it a blanket. The datapad slips unexpectedly from her lap. She picks it up. Not a moment later it defies physics again, sliding across her thigh and falling to the floor. Irritated, she picks it up once more before pausing. Hope looks at the clone. Is it doing this? Shepard _is_ a biotic.

To maintain compatibility for organ transplantation, the clones were saturated with eezo during their development. Hope doesn't understand the science of cloning, but she gathers that Shepard is some sort of freak of nature, a one in a trillion mutation. Genetic abnormalities meant there were bound to be complications with the cloning process. Add in the accelerated growth and eezo saturation… Well, the first batch was a near-total disaster. All the clones came to term with horrific, crippling deformities.

All except one.

One miraculous clone, born perfect and full of unlimited potential – a cosmic accident, like Shepard herself. Hope is pleased that some biotic ability is presenting itself. Had it not, the clone would be a failure, a waste of the considerable time and effort she invested in stealing it. Her hand slips beneath the clone's hair and to the back of its neck. The clone makes a soft sound, shifting in its sleep. Hope narrows her eyes, fingers continuing their search. Abandoning the datapad, she bends down, sweeps the brunette's hair away and gazes at its bare neck. _"Shit."_

Jane Shepard is a goddamn _vanguard_ , one of the two or three most powerful human biotics in existence, comparable even to the asari matriarchs. Stare as she might, she cannot make the biotic amp manifest on the clone's neck. She stands, infuriated. Goddamn it, Jones. Goddamn the cheap bastards for skipping on the necessities. What the hell is the use of a biotics-capable clone without the damned amp? The clone spent so much time on its back that Hope assumed the essentials would be taken care of.

The clone will have to get one implanted, if it's to be capable of more than throwing datapads around. It will be an excruciating process. She wonders if clones feel pain. Hope disregards the thought. It doesn't matter what it feels.

* * *

They go to Illium. Nearly anything goes on Illium, provided you've acquired the proper licenses.

Hope knows it's dicey coming here because everything is monitored. The planet is crawling with aliens, or floating, in the case of the jellyfish-like hanar. Worse yet, two of the individuals she drafted dossiers on – the justicar Samara and the drell assassin Thane Krios – can be found here, as well as Liara T'Soni. After Shepard was blown to meat chunks in space, T'Soni left behind her life as an archaeologist, starting on the path to becoming an information broker. She's set up shop here. Hope cannot risk having the clone spotted ahead of schedule, without preparation. Nor can she risk running into Shepard and Miranda. She doubts Cerberus and Shepard are moving so quickly but time is of the essence and she has to take precautions.

She uses a holographic interface to mask the clone's features, turning it from a fit, olive-toned woman to a pasty, freckled ginger with a square jaw. The device won't fool Illium's sophisticated tech scanners, but it will fool the naked eye. It's common enough, given the murky but lucrative underbelly of the planet. It's almost to be expected, really. Hope has secured them both new identities with thorough, matching backgrounds.

The clone asks no questions. Its eyes drink in the sights, the color and the shine of Illium, the many alien species that prowl the busy hub. Hope smiles only enough to not be remembered as some scowling human. The uniformly feminine, mono-gendered asari are as arrogant and self-congratulating as Hope remembers, baring bright and ofttimes seductive smiles.

"Keep moving," Hope tells the clone, pulling it after her when an asari tries to pull it aside and pitch a deal. "We still have a lot to see," she tells it lightly, releasing its arm. The clone looks at her curiously, unaccustomed, Hope suspects, to not hearing her speak in her natural accent.

The clone follows her diligently, never complaining. Hope hasn't familiarized herself with its voice yet as it rarely speaks. It does understand, however. It responds to her simple commands wordlessly. It's like dragging along a woman-shaped lamp.

Eventually they reach their destination: the Dantius Corporation labs. Hope doesn't like relying on asari, but they are qualified to get the job done and to do it well. The Alliance and humans track biotics and bio-amps too closely. Usually Cerberus would be the ticket, but they're no longer an option. She knows the Illusive Man has already begun looking for her and the clone. The man is notorious for his obsession to detail—an obsession that has served him well. Hopefully the 'real' Shepard will be enough of a distraction to give her and the clone a little breathing room.

Hope downloaded a mine of data before leaving the Cerberus lab. She's happy she underplayed her capabilities when joining the organization. It made taking what she wanted easy. In the past week she has spent every breathing moment combing through the endless data, finding all the necessary details, needing everything to be just right. The clone needs to have the exact biotic amp that Shepard has and Hope has endeavored to see that she gets it.

The asari intern tries to talk Hope into a newer, top of the line Savant amp, sensing that she's the one with the creds. Maybe she thinks the clone is an indentured slave – a perfectly legal practice on Illium – acquired through the fine print of a defaulted contract. "Don't try to upsell me," Hope says, glancing at the datapad detailing the amp's specs. It's an improvement, no question, but she can't take chances. Everything has to be exactly the same.

There's more than enough eezo in the clone's sytem, the records tell her, for it to have fused to its nervous system. All she needs is the amp. Hope will go into the records later and make the appropriate modifications to reflect the clone's data. Biotic amps are branded with serial numbers; they can only ever belong to one individual. The digital age, at least, makes some fabrications easier, and this is Illium after all. "I've forwarded you the necessary specifications and transferred a considerable deposit. Are you ready to operate or not?"

The asari's smile tightens. "Of course," she says thinly. "Right this way."

They're led to a sterile, white room with an operating table and a medical robe and told that the surgeons will be in shortly. The intern quickly escapes and Hope is happy to be rid of her. The clone stands helplessly in the room.

"You'll have to strip," Hope tells the clone. The clone strips and Hope watches it with wry amusement, unused to the paler creature it is currently masquerading as: Jill Jones. Hope couldn't think of a plainer name.

The clone watches her and Hope isn't sure whether to attribute the hesitancy in its expression to it or the hologram. Hope looks forward to when they won't need the masking device. "Your voice is different," it tells her softly.

Hope smiles wryly. "Are you nervous?" The clone steps out of its clothing. Hope takes them and folds them carefully, watching the strange naked form, thinner than the muscular Shepard. She brings the medical robe to it. "This will be a lengthy operation." The clone searches her face. "It won't hurt." It will hurt. It will feel as if its brain and skull are being torn open. But the clone has to learn that life is full of deception, that pain can come unexpectedly, and the expectation will be to move on from it. "I won't let anything happen to you." That part is true. Her eyes drop to the sidearm strapped to her thigh. The clone's breathing rises and falls steadily. Hope touches a hand lightly to its chest. The clone looks down at it. "I promise you that this is necessary."

The clone nods and two asari doctors enter. Hope changes into the scrubs she requested, paying no attention to how they look at her. She has no modesty. When she's finished she settles her eyes on them and smiles. "Let's see if you're half as good as you say you are." She'll be watching. If they aren't, if they screw up one small thing, they'll get a bullet each in the back of their weird, tentacled heads. But even that won't ease the rage she'll feel at having lost humanity's greatest chance for victory over the Reapers.

* * *

It takes weeks for the clone to recover. Hope denies it any medication or medi-gel. If it can't survive the exquisite pain of the surgery, it'll stand no chance in battle facing Reaper forces, those Collector things, and taking on the great Commander Shepard.

At first it mewls pitifully. The most irritating thing outside having to spend time listening to all too celebratory asari after a successful operation, is having to listen to the clone's agonized cries and see its face pathetically stained with tears. The oddly shaved spot at the back of its head is mildly amusing though Hope will be happy to have the hair grow back and cover the ugly mess of scars that zig zag the back of the clone's skull.

Hope makes it meals and gives it vitamin supplements. Eventually the clone learns it won't get any sympathy from her and its sad cries die down. Hope tries to give it datapads to read but the clone ignores them, at times hurling them across the room when Hope sets them in its lap.

That's the way with newly amped biotics. They don't really know what they're doing. Hope has abandoned the notion of keeping any glassware or ceramic intact. She can only hope that all its reckless noise will not be enough to draw the attention of any passersby.

The clone's biotics act up in its sleep, causing objects to fly around unpredictably. One morning Hope wakes to a knife lodged neatly into her pillow, edge facing her neck. The clone sleeps fitfully at her feet, like a dog. Hope supposes the thing is a bit like her bitch, isn't it? She avoids taking a datapad and hitting the clone over the head with it.

She's been keeping track of Shepard's movements. The return of the hero Spectre is enough to have everyone's eyes peeled. Simple searches on the extranet have forums flooded with sightings of Jane Shepard. Some sightings are clearly made up. Others, like those of her on the Citadel are more concrete. Hope looks to her hired eyes and ears to really keep her updated on Shepard's progress. She tells herself there's still time.

The weather is bleak. Rain falls in torrents, drumming against the ceiling, walls and windows. The clone is confused at first, looking around wildly before desperately staring out the windows. _Get away from there. Don't let the pretty façade fool you. Illium's no better than Omega._ Of course, the clone doesn't know what that is, either.

It watches television, sulking. Hope slaps the clone's wrists when it brings its hands to the back of its head to touch where it's been cut open. After enough slaps, the clone stops doing it. Hope rubs some moisturizing lotion onto the back of its head and it sighs softly, closing its eyes. "Looks like asari know more than just how to shake their ass on a stage," Hope tells the clone, crouching beside it on the couch. The clone turns its eyes toward her, hazel brown with slivers of green, framed by thick eyelashes. They are warmer than they should be. Its olive skin is smooth, chestnut hair falling in waves to its shoulders. "I'm happy you survived," she tells it with a smile. The asari are too, she's sure.

The clone speaks in a hoarse whisper, unused to activity. "You said it wouldn't hurt. It hurts."

"I didn't want to scare you," she says, rising to her full height. She looks at the ugly scars at the back of its head, to the port on its neck surrounded by enflamed, red skin. "Living hurts. The sooner you get used to that, the better off the two of us will be."

It lowers its head and Hope isn't sure if it's from the pain, her words, shame or disappointment. She doesn't ask because she doesn't care. She listens to its wheezy breaths and tucks a lock of hair behind its ear. The clone looks at her. "Go to sleep. We leave for Torfan in the morning."

* * *

The Shepard Memorial Flame doesn't elicit a response from the clone. Instead, it watches people mill around the flame, clustering together to take pictures and upload them to the extranet. A statue of Shepard looms over the crowd, face covered by her N7 helmet. Hope ties her hair up and wears large sunglasses, grateful the exceeding heat of the sun (despite being on a small moon) makes for a convenient excuse to hide her face.

The clone ties up what little of its hair it can and Hope is grateful to no longer have to stare at the back of its head. She's created another hologram disguise for it, another plain Jane named Sheila Smith. She never bothers with alluring holograms, as most who use them do. The point is for the clone to disappear into obscurity and be completely forgettable when out in public.

There are batarian protestors corralled off to the side with protest signs. They are guarded by tense Alliance soldiers. The protests died down with Shepard's 'death' two years ago. Now that she's back, protests have spiked again. Batarians are a disgusting, unattractive race, with their bulbous heads, four eyes, and razor-sharp teeth. Worse, they have few redeeming qualities, making their living as slave traders and pirates. Their own home planet's economy is widely known to be dependent on slave labor, though their government vehemently denies it.

Years ago, Shepard led an Alliance raid against Torfan and its various strongholds, all of which were largely populated by batarian criminals. The Alliance took heavy losses, but the operation was a success. The batarians were completely wiped from the moon, and Shepard's reputation as "the butcher" was cemented. No prisoners were taken, despite rumors that some batarians had surrendered.

Hope holds no ill will toward Shepard for cleansing Torfan and chasing the batarians out of Citadel space. Dead batarians are good batarians. She does take issue with how many of Shepard's unit she sent to their deaths. The same results could have been accomplished with orbital bombing, followed by sending in strike forces to scrub whatever holes the surviving batarians scurried into. Better yet, an appropriately large rock could have been nudged out of its orbit in the asteroid belt and directed to collide with the moon, annihilating it and everyone on it. It could have been written off as a freak cosmic accident instead of making humankind look like the thugs of the galaxy.

Shepard is ruthless. She accomplishes whatever task is given her. She leads. But does she lead well? Can't they do better than a sloppy tyrant? The shouts of human protestors get Hope's attention. There are families of the soldiers who died under Shepard's command standing in solidarity with the batarians.

The clone looks away from the admittedly unimpressive flame to look at a leaflet in its hand. Some batarian sympathizer must have shoved it into its hand. The clone's current plain-Jane features twist into disquiet and deep sorrow. "This is terrible," it says.

Hope snatches the leaflet away from the clone and glances at it. It lists not only Commander Shepard's crimes but links humanity to all of it, painting the batarians as innocent victims. Naturally, they left out the part about the Skyllian Blitz, the unprompted attack they initiated on Elysium. "Nice. But they fail to mention how they abduct humans from defenseless civilian colonies and sell them into slavery. I imagine that makes their argument less convincing." She tears the leaflet in half and lets it fall to the ground. She has no respect for Jane Shepard's legacy. What she needs is someone with her capabilities, someone who will start out fresh, who can be molded to represent the best of humanity, not some alien sympathizer who is content with letting humanity take a backseat to the rest of the galaxy. Hope remembers her initial surge of pride when Shepard was made the first human Spectre. How things change.

Humanity needs Shepard's will, her fortitude, her talents for killing, and when necessary, for persuasion. Her reputation for getting the job done is admirable, but Hope draws lines. Humanity needs someone who will do the job well. Not someone stupid enough to get blown up rescuing crippled pilots.

The clone has the same DNA as Shepard. It _is_ Shepard. It has her face. That face will let it take Shepard's place. But it isn't enough. It needs Shepard's skills. They're somewhere, buried inside of it. Hope only has to jog that instinct within and bring it to the forefront. They have so much work to do, so much studying, so much training, that even thinking about the colossal undertaking is near enough to make her want to quit.

The clone stares at the memorial flame before beginning a search on its omni-tool. Hope plants her hands on her hips, watching it search on the extranet. It had been a chore teaching the clone how to use the omni-tool but the small peace and quiet she had found after the fact had made it worthwhile. "Commander Shepard sounds like an awful person," the clone mutters, reading through a lengthy list of her accomplishments.

It stands stock still when an image of Jane Shepard comes up, wearing her N7 hardsuit, helmet off, holding a shotgun, a cocky, daring grin on her lips. Hope wishes she could clear the crowds, see the clone's face, its real face, shift into… what is that? Wonder? Amazement? Horror? "That's Commander Shepard?" it asks breathlessly. It looks at Hope as if it's been betrayed. It looks around desperately as if it were in quicksand.

Hope smiles. "And here I was hoping to keep it a surprise. Yes. That's Commander Shepard. And soon, there will only be one savior for humanity. The rightful Shepard." Hope's fingers glide along the back of its neck, feeling the goose bumps along its skin, the small thin hairs rising, the heat of where the biotic amp is buried. "You."


	2. Pupa

The clone is obsessed. This isn't the usual brand of hero worship Hope is accustomed to seeing. It's something more. Night and day the clone searches the extranet, seeking details on Commander Jane Shepard. Hope lets it explore, wanting it, in some ways, to find its own path before she drops the massive quantity of data that she has on the commander in its lap.

The clone has a child's capacity for learning. It takes in knowledge like a sponge, ingesting it, before quickly growing hungry again and searching for more. It reads constantly and Hope discovers that it has 'discreetly' created a massive new folder filled with images of the woman. It stops, in between reading Alliance News articles on Shepard, to open the folder and scroll through the images.

Sometimes it falls asleep on whatever their current kitchen table happens to be, in the midst of reading. Hope doesn't know if it's too stupid to rest when necessary or if it's pure excitement that forces the creature to keep going until it simply can't anymore. Hope shuts the computer and takes hold of its shoulder until it turns its shadowed eyes to her. "Off to bed. Now."

In the beginning the clone did so without question. Lately it stares at her. There is something bubbling beneath the surface. Hope furrows her eyebrows when it yawns. The small action, unseen before in the creature (partly due to how often it slept prior, like an infant) is jarring and unfamiliar. It wipes at its eyes, stands and moves past her, moving to the bedroom and collapsing on its side.

It no longer sleeps at her feet like a pet, choosing instead to sleep at Hope's side. Hope can't decide whether this is a mark of progress or if she needs to be more careful moving forward.

* * *

Hope finds the clone in the bathroom in the middle of the night, the door cracked open just enough for her to see. A laptop rests on the bathroom sink, with several windows of Shepard's image opened. The clone looks from the computer screen to the mirror.

Hope watches it try to mimic the expressions on the screen. That's good of it. That's smart. Shepard's more than just a face. Shepard is movement, expression, a sauntering, predatory presence. Many of the pictures are infused with Shepard's custom arrogance. When she frowns she looks dangerous. When she smiles, it's a scornful invitation.

Try as it might, the clone cannot manage the expressions. It tries over and over again and fails. Hope wonders if it needs to experience the emotions to be able to duplicate the appropriate faces. The clone lowers its chin, thoughtful and sad when it catches Hope's reflection in the mirror and slams the door shut.

Hope's startled by the act of defiance. It is the first time that it has acted against her. Is it embarrassed? Hope leans against the doorway and waits. She waits in silence for half an hour but the clone doesn't emerge.

Hope decides to prepare the necessary nutritional regimen the clone needs. She stole a good number of supplies from the Cerberus lab before leaving, those necessary to keep it strong and primed for dominance. She loads the chamber of the injection gun with the appropriate medication and hormones and waits in the living room, reading about the disappearing human colonies, baffled at the Alliance's inability and unwillingness to do anything about it.

Minutes later the clone emerges. It sets the laptop down on the coffee table and sits beside her, burying its hands in its hair, taking slow and labored breaths. The creature is upset. "You don't have to keep secrets from me," Hope tells it. Why did the clone choose to undertake the study in private? Was it meant to be a surprise? Or has the obsession move to regrettable hero worship after all? The clone lowers its hands, elbows resting on its knees, leaning forward.

Hope sweeps the hair back from its neck. She doesn't ask, she merely brings the injection gun to the clone's neck and pulls the trigger once it's lined over its vein. The clone doesn't gasp but its expression twitches. Hope brings her fingers to the neck to massage the medicine in and reduce any minute pain it may feel later on.

"I don't look like her."

"Don't be daft. You're identical. The rest will come in time." Hopefully not too much more time.

The clone appears unsatisfied. "Why do I look like her?" It asks. Hope extends three large gel caps and a glass of water. "Are we sisters?" It muses. "Are we twins?"

Hope had not planned on a philosophical debate on what it was. Not yet. Anyway, it's too young to know the answers. The creature must be hardened before it finds out that it was created to be spare parts for a hero Spectre. If it develops properly it will ask the necessary questions and Hope will have to tell it. The matter will be delicate. It's not every day you learn that you are only meant as a patch-up for the real thing. "Take this and drink it."

"Is Hannah Shepard my mother?"

"Drink," Hope instructs severely. The clone resentfully snatches the pills from her hand, taking them and swallowing them down with the water. It stands and paces. The creature is becoming restless. That's good. It will become more defiant but it will be more than a lump of flesh.

"What are these for?" It asks. "Why do I have to take them? Why do you pump me with whatever it is you're pumping me with?"

It sets its hazel eyes on her. They're greener, Hope thinks, when it's angry. "It's to keep you healthy and make you strong. It may not all make sense right now but it will." The clone glares at her. "Sit down." The clone doesn't. "Sit." Hope says, her voice harder still. It doesn't respond. The room is shaking, frames on the walls rattling, items on surfaces shifting. A light blue corona surrounds the clone. In this state, it's dangerous. Hope reaches out, her fingers brushing along its wrist. There's the snap of static electricity, and she pulls her hand away again. "Sit," she says again.

The clone sits. It looks helplessly at her, its eyes gleaming. Is it sad? Is it frustrated? Is it angry? "You said I'm supposed to replace her. I don't even know how to fight." Emotion chokes her voice. Hope blinks at it. "I want to learn. I want to train. But I'll never be an N7."

No. It won't. Not in the same way. That time in Shepard's life is over. Hope is still sure that those instincts are buried within the clone. They only need to find the necessary triggers to bring them to the surface. Shepard is a creature of instinct, not of thought, not of precision; she is a spark that ignites a blaze that causes incomprehensible damage. "You'll learn. You'll train. You'll become strong. And then you'll kill her. Is that understood?"

The clone doesn't look at her, hands clasped nervously in front of it. "I don't want to kill anyone."

Hope swears. It takes everything she has to not strike it. Whatever bloodlust Shepard has, she prays it's only lying dormant. If it's missing, if it will never manifest, then there really is nothing left to hope for.

* * *

They're deep in the lawless Terminus Systems, buried in the Omega Nebula. Hope has hired one of the rare pilots willing to take a small ship into an area fraught with piracy and civil wars. It came at a cost, but she has means, thanks to the small fortune she drained from Cerberus' coffers when she left. Her parents didn't raise a thief—they didn't raise her at all.

Beside her, the clone sits in a bucket seat. It wears a hardsuit and a helmet, its arms crossed and head tilted back. It knows little of the dangers of the Terminus Systems, despite Hope's explanations. It only knows that there is another operation in store and nothing is expected of it except to present itself.

An N7 Crusader shotgun sits in the seat between them. Hope prefers the satisfaction of a well-placed sniper shot or the intimate and personal nature of pressing a barrel to the back of someone's head. There is an art to that. Shotguns are different, vicious, more honest somehow. Necessary for the worst-case scenarios when things have turned to shit. She has walked through mists of blood before. Despite being prepared for the eventuality, it is not how she would prefer things to go down.

Hope opens the black box that sits on her lap. The clone turns its head to look. An iridescent blue orb, smaller than a marble. At first glance it would seem like nothing remarkable, but it is the next evolution of graybox technology. It's experimental, so new that it doesn't even have a name. Miranda Lawson is clever. After the clone has killed Shepard, Hope might send Miranda her thanks for the brilliant schematic she provided—a schematic that Mr. Illusive refused to let her use. Not that Miranda gave it to her. Not that she ever would. Hope had to take it, unasked. That's the way of this world with the things you want.

* * *

The lab ship hangs like a rusted iron coffin in a black sea of stars. They dock, the pilot getting the shuttle some meaningful distance away, awaiting Hope's orders for pick up. The air is thin and cold, somehow humid and sticky as well. The clone removes its helmet and looks around the long, shadowed corridors with flickering lights.

"Down the hall and to the left. Third door on the right," comes a voice over the intercom, a voice that is either made shrill by nature or the aging intercom technology. It must be Dr. Ward.

Hope cast a wide net to track down a suitable party to perform the operation. It's illegal, of course. The Council and Alliance like to patent any technology that will give any one species that isn't their own an advantage. They'll talk about the dangers but that's never really mattered to them. What matters are results, what matters is staying on top of the game. Illegal or not that's exactly what Hope aims to do.

Half of the technology utilized by the known universe is never used in the way it was intended. Invented in 2160, the graybox was meant to help Alzheimer's patients. Instead it became a go-to for spies and thieves. This advancement is intended for those with brain damage, as Miranda feared Shepard would have. It could also be used to give infants of affluent parents a remarkable edge in their academic careers. It's a little like cheating—but cheaters do prosper and the clone needs even footing. It doesn't have the memories of formative years, of an academic career. Never mind the fact that Shepard was an average student.

A shout comes from an unidentifiable location. Hope lifts the shotgun into position and smiles at the clone when she sees the worry on its face. Dr. Thomas Ward has a bit of a reputation. Brilliant and mad, he has a propensity for not only illegal experiments but also highly unethical, cruel ones. Cerberus had him in their sights but deemed him too unreliable, too self-involved to play by the rules in one of their labs.

The clone and Hope move through the ship. It creaks and groans. They pass foggy, dirty windows smeared with patches of red and handprints. Further along they see (when the lights decide to kick in) drags of blood along the walls, seeping beneath doors, and they hear the unquestionable sounds of screams, of fists banging against walls, crying. Somewhere, a woman giggles incessantly, the mirthless sound echoing through the ventilation system.

The clone looks more unsettled by the moment. "What is this place?" It asks. Hope keeps moving without responding. It goes to one of the windows to peer into the room. It looks for a way of entry and Hope is glad it doesn't find it. "We should help them."

"No. We're only here for one reason. We are not to interfere. Nod and tell me you understand." Hope looks at the clone who stares back at her, conflicted. "They're being taken care of. I promise. I know how it looks—but if it weren't for people like Dr. Ward, you wouldn't be here. Now let's move."

It reluctantly follows. They turn left and arrive at the third door on the right. The motion detectors pick them up and the door grinds open. There is a medical chair that was clearly cushioned with green leather once and is now torn in places and stained with crimson splashes in others. A harsh yellow light shines on it. The clone takes a step back but Hope taps its arm gently with the Crusader and it learns to stay still.

"Dr. Thomas Ward," Hope says. The man has their back to them, looking thin in a lab coat that is far too large. The scarecrow of a man turns. He's tall with sallow cheeks, thinning hair and a widow's peak. His smile stretches far and his yellowed, horse's teeth become an afterthought after Hope catches the pulsing nature of his eyes. The man has changed considerably from the picture she last saw of him. Who knows what work he's done on himself. It's been years. Further time for him to drown in madness. Hope begins to doubt her resolve. He comes over and stretches a hand that she ignores. "Your ship is in shambles." She looks around the room. It looks clean, at least, despite the bloodstains. "Forget to make a power payment?"

"It's difficult to get repairs taken care of," he admits with a dismissive wave of the hand. "I've allocated the remaining power to where it's needed. Let me see it." He demands. Hope holds on to the box. He looks at her impatiently and then at the clone, staring at it for a moment before turning its eyes greedily to the box. "You said the schematic would be mine," it sounds like a complaint.

"It will. If the surgery is performed to specification." There's a beat. "You've received the payment."

"I don't care about the payment."

It is a rare man that doesn't care about credits. It's useful but also makes him dangerous. Hope is relieved, at least, that he doesn't appear to care for the clone, that he doesn't ask questions, that he is instead, motivated by technology. "I've heard you can take care of anything. This…creature," she says with a sidelong smile to the clone, "is important to me. If anything goes wrong—"

"Nothing will go wrong," he snaps at her. "You. Sit." He points the clone at the chair. He scowls but the clone doesn't move. In a flurry of motion he moves away, looking through cabinets and medical trays.

The clone stands anxiously. No doubt watching sci-fi horror vids on television has given it all the right ideas on why it should be skeptical. But this is not the time for skepticism and hesitation. "You need this," Hope tells it. "It won't be as bad as the last operation."

"I don't like him," the clone whispers.

"I don't care." Hope takes a moment when she sees how stung the stupid thing is by her words. Sensitive. It's far too sensitive. "Dr. Ward, care to explain the recovery process to our dear patient?"

"Unpleasant," he says, lifting a drill, giving the thin bit a few test spins. "But the worst will pass within a week. Nausea, vertigo, disorientation, exhaustion are the likely side effects. You'll live."

"It had better," Hope says sharply.

The clone looks at her. Hope gives Dr. Ward the box containing the device and pushes the clone towards the chair. She doesn't want to see that stupid look of fear in its eyes.

* * *

It's been three days since the operation. The clone alternates between stooping in front of the toilet like a drooping flower, voiding itself of the little food it manages to ingest and curling up on the couch, sleeping fitfully. It's near impossible for it to keep its eyes open and walking has become an adventure. Hope has cleared a path for it from the living room to the bedroom to the bathroom, hoping to stop the clone's violent careening into furniture, walls and to the floor.

Hope continues to give it its regimen of vitamins and injections. They will stop once and _if_ it starts a training regimen. This is only to keep her in optimal condition. The clone will have Commander Shepard's strength even if it lacks her fighting finesse. That will do for the time being.

She brings it tea and drinks and foods rich in electrolytes. The clone will puke them up but its system will absorb some of them before then. It won't last long either way. The clone eats and drinks, fingers grasping at its forehead and with every passing moment, Hope can see something changing in its eyes, there is an intelligence brimming, its eyes shifting from foggy to sharp and clear.

It complains little, for which Hope is grateful. The clone makes references to Beethoven and Mozart some hours after the operation, its voice hazy and curious. The procedure is working as intended. The osmotic process will take several months to complete as the necessary synaptic connections are formed and the data is assimilated by her brain. The graybox will be slowly absorbed by her bloodstream, leaving behind a multi-doctorate level of education.

As a reward, Hope secures it a tangible music player with quality headphones, loaded with the most esteemed classical music. She sets it beside the clone, who opens its eyes cautiously when it feels Hope's touch along its face and hair. "I have a few errands to run but I wanted to give this to you first."

The clone sets its eyes on her. They are dark, its face pale, dots of burst, tiny veins dotting her cheeks and nose from the constant vomiting. It looks at the device and back at her before sitting up. Hope brings the headphones over its ears and turns it on, starting Ode to Joy. The clone's eyes light up. Hope smiles without meaning to. "Why?" it asks.

"These past few weeks haven't been easy," she says lightly. "I know I seem hard. I only want you prepared. You haven't been in this world long. You haven't learned that the enemy will strike when you're at your worst. I have many enemies." There's a beat. "Would you like me to pick anything up?"

The clone shakes its head. Hope stands. Before she can move on, it takes her wrist. "Thank you," it says weakly.

Hope looks at it and pulls her wrist free. "Get some rest."

She exits the safe house, nestled in one of the Omega slums filled to the brim with the most despicable lowlifes the station has to offer. Hope was careful to go to a human sector, not one infected with Vorcha and Batarians, not one that is close to Mordin Solus or "Archangel". They don't stand out here though Hope is careful to not walk too tall, too proud. She knows she must look as broken as the rest of the degenerates to truly fit in.

She takes a cab to a restaurant district, one of the finer ones, and orders a steak and a glass of red wine. She speaks to the manager and asks to use his phone to make a call. His eyes drink her in lecherously but he acquiesces and gives her a moment of privacy. She thanks him and closes the door. She dials the number. "This is Carter. You're clear to proceed. Kill her and you'll get the rest of your credits. I don't care how you do it, just get it done. You have an hour." She hangs up the phone.

Hope leans into the desk and inhales slowly. She closes her eyes and exhales. She tells herself this is necessary. Then she exits, happy that she's returned to her table just in time for the wine.

* * *

The clone's throat is raw from throwing up, its face taking on an alarming numbness, despite how it burns. The dull pain at the back of its head is a blessing compared to the first operation it had to endure. Instead, the clone feels a dull throbbing at the base of its skull, beating in time with its heart.

The vertigo and exhaustion are another beast altogether. The clone has difficulty standing straight and moves along the apartment on shaky legs, fingers trailing along the walls, providing a sight and balance that it does not currently possess. Every step is an unmapped journey, leaving the clone floundering.

It makes its way back to the bedroom and collapses face down on the bed. _She_ isn't here but _She_ gave it something. The clone has never received anything save for a legacy it isn't sure it wants. The pillows and sheets smell of _Her_ and _Her_ perfume and the scent of _Her_ skin. Who is _She_? She of the Many Names.

The clone feels lost without _Her_. And tired. Fatigue weighs heavily upon it, the sensation similar to when it first discovered Commander Jane Shepard and took to the task of unearthing everything about the woman, to reading up on every shred of her existence.

Facts manifest in its mind, hazy like fog. Everything is on the tip of its tongue, the tip of knowing. The clone is standing on a precipice, obscure knowledge presenting itself tauntingly only to disappear and come back more brightly. It knows now that the quarians are a wandering species without a planet to call home, but it doesn't know what they look like or what they eat. _She_ assures her that Shepard is friendly with one.

This is the first time it has been separated from _Her_. It does not like the feeling; abandonment fills it like a vacuum. It takes hold of the headphones presented earlier and slips them onto its head, closing its eyes. It doesn't know what it's doing. _She_ never explains much of anything. It hopes that it isn't disappointing _Her_. Sometimes _She_ looks at it with such hope and promise. Other times _She_ looks frightening, _She_ looks as if _She_ wants to bury it.

The music blooms on the headphones. The clone has never heard anything so beautiful, so melodic. The music moves it in a way it hadn't thought possible. There is a sensation that is far above anything it has experienced. It makes the clone feel…peculiar. Joyous…? The clone doesn't think _She_ would like that word.

The music swells and dives. It hears what sounds like a door opening in the distance. Has _She_ returned? _She_ has given so many aliases that the clone isn't sure which one is real. It isn't sure it knows anything about _Her_. Should it worry it? It isn't sure. Only recently has it learned what worry is, has learned what worry feels like. It is… an unfavorable feeling.

The clone sighs softly and stands. It ought to greet _Her_. One step and then another. The process is difficult. The recovery is only meant to take a week and the clone hopes that it will take no longer. It has seemingly awoken only to endure pain.

It sees a shadow and the clone turns its head quickly, rewarded only with a flash of color as everything seems to move in slow motion.

"Visual," comes a gruff, gravelly voice. There's one heavy footstep and then another. Something isn't right. There is gleaming blue armor with a splash of white. The clone doesn't recognize the thing in front of it. Tall, humanoid, but with a grayish-brown exoskeleton and beady eyes that peer out from a mandibled, vaguely reptilian face. It has read about dinosaurs. It has read about birds. It has not seen whatever this creature is.

Data emerges from the fog. Turian. It's a turian. The first alien species encountered by humans when they ventured outside their solar system. There was a misunderstanding, followed by a brief war. The humans would have lost, had the galactic council not intervened on their behalf.

"This is the hit?" The other thing has four eyes and a fanged mouth, also clad in blue armor. Like the things on Torfan. Batarian. "With all the credits we're being paid I thought this would be tough."

They both lift their guns at the same time. Eyes widening, the clone lifts its arms at the same time they pull the triggers. There's a flash of blue. Did it do that? The sound of the weapons is deafening. Its ears ring, but it isn't dead. It isn't harmed.

"Shit! A biotic!" The turian says. "Shoot her!"

They called it 'her.' Is it more than an 'it?' Is it also a 'her?'

The clone bolts, tripping over its own feet, landing behind the couch, unsure of how it still lives, unsure of what that pulse of energy just now was, only knowing that it feels further worn because of it.

"Come out, bitch," the batarian reaches a hand behind the couch, grabbing a fistful of its hair and lifting the clone to its feet. The clone doesn't have a chance to say anything before the batarian rams 'her' head into the wall. Numbing, crippling pain flares throughout its forehead. Everything's blurry.

The clone instinctively throws its elbow back and feels it connect with something, hears the howl of the batarian. Its heart hammers rapidly. There is ice in 'her' gut, sweat on 'her' skin. It's difficult to breathe and there is an overwhelming desire to run, run, run so it stumbles to the bedroom and shuts the door. It's barely out of the way when bullets punch through, leaving black, clean marks.

The turian kicks the door open. The clone's screams are cut short by a vicious fist to the face. Blood sprays from its mouth, hitting the sheets on the bed. _She_ wouldn't like that, it thinks. The left side of its face is numb and throbbing.

It doesn't hurt as much as the operation. Suddenly, the clone's grateful that _She_ never gave it medicine, that _She_ made it endure.

The wind is knocked out of it when the turian's foot connects with its stomach, dropping the clone to her hands and knees.

"Who are you?" The clone demands, wheezing in between words, not sure if it's sweat or tears running down its face. "I haven't done any—" The turian cracks his knee into its face. A fountain of blood sprays out and the clone coughs.

"What are you doing?" The batarian asks, looking bored.

"You know those things humans keep as pets? Cats? They play with birds and rats once they've caught them."

"You're the fucking bird," the batarian says. "We've got an hour."

The turian's mouth flaps. The clone doesn't know if the turian is smiling or irritated. "It's been five minutes," the turian says. "Looks kind of like that dead Spectre, doesn't she?" Is it also a 'she?' "Think Aria would pay for her?"

"That cheap bitch?" The batarian laughs. The clone glares at them. It tries to get to its feet but the batarian smiles, bringing the butt of the gun violently against its forehead. The clone crashes back onto the bed and breathes raggedly. The batarian squares its shoulders and lifts the gun. "Let's finish her off. We get paid by the job, not by the hour."

Its finger is squeezing on the trigger when the clone rolls to the side. A spray of bullet tears into the bed and the turian laughs. "Oh, this is going to be fu—" He goes flying back, untouched, crashing into the wall. He stills, stunned before shaking his head, setting its beady green eyes on the clone. "Kill her! Kill her, kill her, kill her!"

As the batarian lifts the assault rifle once again, the clone _tugs_. There's nowhere left to run, but 'she' will not die before finding out what 'she' is. What _Her_ name is. The batarian looks dumbfounded as his rifle is torn away from him, flying through the air and into 'her' hands. The clone looks down at it, not sure how to use it, not sure how 'she' got it…

 _biotics_

…only knowing that it is a weapon and it can be used. But the clone isn't sure that it wants to—the batarian rushes the clone and its finger finds the trigger and pulls. It's hard to pull on it and the clone isn't expecting the kick. The shots fire wild, grazing only the batarian's armor but hitting the turian in the neck. It makes disturbing, gurgling noises and the clone goes dizzy with guilt—

The assault rifle slips from its hands and clatters to the floor. The batarian swings his massive arm but the clone lifts 'hers' and blocks the punch, spinning off to the side. 'She' is surprised by its own gracefulness but the moment doesn't last long. The batarian wraps a brutal hand around the clone's neck, slamming 'her' into the wall once, twice, making the room spin. It's already so tired.

The clone tries to remove the hands from 'her' throat, but cannot. The batarian is angry about its dead turian friend, its mouth is wet and slimy, his stench like a dense wall. The clone whips a hand up, digging 'her' pointed fingers into one of the batarian's eyes. The batarian screams and the clone uses the opportunity to slip away, instinctively grabbing the assault rifle as 'she' exits the room. Stumbling, 'she' falls to 'her' knees in the living room.

It's battling gravity and losing. _Get to your feet, get to your feet, get to your feet_. If occurs to the clone that if it loses this fight, it will not see _Her_ again. It seems a more terrible fate than death itself. The batarian charges out of the room, bleeding goop from its lost eye. It's strong, and 'she' can only manage a small cry before the batarian has picked 'her' up, hurling 'her' over the couch. The clone crashes brutally, smashing the glass coffee table.

Everything is blinding and whirling, sharp pain shoots up the clone's back and 'she' feels nauseous and wants _Her_ and doesn't know why this is happening. The assault rifle is some inches away and the clone grabs it just as the batarian hops over the couch. It's luck, the clone thinks, that the timing of the swing allows the assault rifle to smash ferociously into the batarian's temple. The batarian groans, grabbing its head as the clone pushes to its feet, pushes him somehow, without making contact.

The batarian skids across the floor and the clone mounts him and screams, bringing the butt of the gun down on its head once and then over and over again, listening to the cracking sounds, being splashed by the viscous substance that oozes out of the batarian until the clone's throat burns and it can barely make sound. The batarian has stopped moving. She isn't sure when he stilled.

The apartment is a disaster. The clone looks at the dead batarian in terror, crawling away from him, vomiting once more on the side of the couch, _like a cat_ , and the clone isn't sure if it's from the revulsion coursing through her or from the recovery process of the most recent operation.

"That's why Torfan happened, you son of a bitch," the clone spits but hates the words, not knowing if 'she' fully agrees with them. All 'she' has is anger and fear, blood and pain. Attempts to stand fail and all 'she' can do is cling to the couch, wanting to cry, wanting _Her_.

It sits for several minutes, disoriented and feeling sorry for itself. Facts clarify in its mind. Techniques for killing batarians and turians. Suddenly it's so clear when 'she' no longer needs the knowledge. The clone isn't sure 'she' wants to know how to kill but now understands the necessity.

Time passes. _She_ returns. The clone didn't hear, despite the broken glass, despite the disarray. _Her_ footsteps are silent. _She_ looks frightened and worried. _She_ kneels at the clone's side with great care, touches 'her' face delicately. The cool touch is soothing against 'her' pulsing, bleeding face. "I don't know why this happened," the clone says, happy that it stays any tears threatening to spill.

 _She_ looks around, angry, disgusted, relieved. "You're human. That's all the reason they need," _She_ says. "What matters is that you're alive." _She_ wraps _Her_ arms around the clone, drawing it close. The clone inhales _Her_ fragrant scent. _She_ has never done this with it before. The clone has seen similar behaviors on television amongst friends, family, lovers. Is _She_ any of those? It's comforting. _Her_ voice is comforting. "I'm so glad you're all right. I don't know what I would do if something happened to you."

The clone stares at _Her_ and is happy that _She_ wasn't here when the attack happened. It wants to cry. Maybe 'she' did earlier. "I need to know your name," it says raspily. _She_ is running her thumbs gently down 'her' cheeks. "Why don't I know your name?" It trembles.

It is with great care that _She_ helps the clone to its feet. "It didn't matter before." _She_ looks at it, different than usual and the clone momentarily forgets all the pain. "You can call me Hope."

Somehow, the name is fitting.


	3. Motherless

The clone's olive complexion is marred with a myriad of colorful bruises along her brow, neck, jaw and arms. Her stomach and ribs have been reduced to a purple, near black color from the merciless blows she suffered.

It suits her.

She is intact and scar-free thanks to Hope's diligent medi-gel application. The days following the attempted hit, the clone's moods teeter. At times she is filled with profound sadness, lamenting, to Hope's irritation, the loss of life. Much preferred are the rare moments of white-hot anger, when her eyes burn green with hatred and contempt for her attackers. A trill of excitement races along Hope's body then: scraps of motherly pride and unexpected arousal. In those rage-fueled moments, the clone is indistinguishable from Commander Shepard.

When the clone drifts off to sleep, Hope studies the footage gathered from the attack, gleaned from cameras hidden around the apartment. The Blue Suns were vicious, true to their reputation. Hope is glad she went to them. It's remarkable that the clone survived. Hope would have no use for her if she hadn't.

Shepard is a master at hand-to-hand combat. Dissimilarly, the clone is unskilled in that regard. It didn't help that she was dizzy throughout. Hope watches the footage of the clone pinballing from wall to wall, struggling to stay upright. Yet she is fluid. The few blows she lands appear to be a matter of precision, despite how she later describes the attack to Hope. She isn't bad, only untrained. Better yet, she appears to have a natural affinity for biotics, her body pulsing with blue energy throughout the encounter, despite never having learned. All in all, Hope is pleased. Now they can proceed to the second phase.

Since the prototype graybox injection, the clone has become more talkative. Topics range from music, to Shepard (most often it's Shepard) to dark energy theory. "Theory isn't enough," Hope tells her. "You need hands-on experience."

The clone is undeterred. She has a better grasp of the topic than Hope does, talking in detail about the scientific aspects and mathematical formulas that frankly bore her. The clone eats ravenously and sleeps extensively in the days following the attack. It later explains, with some small hint of pride, that it is the expected result of her biotic use.

A week later she asks Hope to pay attention, unaware that Hope has been sharply focused on her since the attack. The clone takes Hope to the kitchen, grabbing three apples from a basket and throwing them up in the air. Hope waits for them to fall but they bobble, held in space by the clone who concentrates intensely, face radiant, despite the bruises, despite how she bites back any smiles.

Hope crosses her arms and smiles palely, barely suppressing her frustration. She knows how desperately the clone wants her approval. Clearly there remains work to be done.

The apples spin lazily in the air.

"At this rate you'll make fine entertainment at children's parties," Hope says coolly. The clone flicks her eyes away. "Do you think Shepard spends her time juggling? It's a nice trick but fundamentally useless." The apples crash to the floor, rolling in different directions. "Don't waste my time with this. Now pick up your mess." She exits the room. She has hurt the clone's feelings but doesn't care. It isn't her job to pamper her. It would be a disservice to pamper her. She will treat her whatever way is necessary to make her hard and inflexible as steel.

* * *

Jane Shepard's fingers are buried inside of Jack. The pit of Engineering is cold as the grave but Jack is wet and hot, squeezing her digits tightly below, even as she digs her stubby fingernails into the back of her neck. Shepard gasps, the pain sharp and fresh but still not enough to offset the numbness she has felt since being brought back.

She doesn't like Jack. She doesn't like any of the assholes aboard Cerberus' version of the _Normandy_. Joker's the reason she fucking died to begin with. There's Garrus, of course. He's like a brother. A dinosaur-bird brother. But there's no Tali or Kaidan. There's no Liara. There's a rambling salarian who doesn't know when to shut the fuck up. A krogan dumber than Wrex was. A boy scout that makes Kaidan look like a party animal. There's an icy bitch that never lets off her ass.

Shepard thrusts her fingers more deeply inside the convict. Shepard's looked at her records; she's a real piece of shit with a mess of tattoos. The kid is young and broken. Cerberus did a number on her. She's probably seen more shit than Shepard has. Jack thinks she's invincible, which is no doubt the reason she allows an unemotional fuck like this, even if she doesn't run with the 'girl's club.' Shepard calls bullshit.

She promised Jack more Cerberus data as incentive. Trades are fair. Shepard isn't sure if there is more data to give away but if there is and it'll piss Miranda off, it's a win-win.

Where the _fuck_ is Liara? She was fuller than Jack. A woman. Not built like a boy with barely-there tits. She's all bone and edges. Shepard's fingers can find scars that the tattoos hide. Jack cries out, eyes fiery and disgusted on her. Shepard takes her face and turns it cruelly to the side. She doesn't want her eyes. She wants blue ones, clear and sweet on her. "Don't make a fucking sound," Shepard tells her.

Jack doesn't, face turned roughly away, chest heaving, body moving against her. Shepard buries her face in her neck but doesn't kiss her. Jack stiffens when she comes, clenching around Shepard's fingers before stilling. Shepard doesn't waste any time removing her fingers. The two of them stare at each other before Jack pushes her back and returns to the cot she'd been sitting on when Shepard visited.

"Thanks," Shepard says.

"Fuck off."

Shepard doesn't linger. She takes the clanking steps up, making sure to avoid the grating Donnelly and Daniels. Miranda asked to see her over an hour ago but Shepard doesn't want to give her the impression that she's in charge of anything because she isn't. She'll talk to her when and if she damn well chooses. The most urgent matter at the time is a pain that has been flaring beneath her flesh for weeks now.

It began as a tingle and has become a dull thrum. Now it feels as if there is lava burning under her skin. She takes the elevator to her cabin, her eyes skittishly touching on Liara's framed picture before entering the bathroom. In the darkness before the motion detectors pick her up, there is a bleeding, orange glow. Shepard washes the indiscretion from her hands, scrubbing until Jack's scent is gone.

She peers into the mirror, easing a lock of brown hair behind her ear. Her skin is coming apart, hot to the touch. She touches it experimentally, wondering if she's imagining the red sheen to her eyes.

What the fuck did Cerberus do to her?

* * *

The lab has long been overgrown with wild plants. Hope assures her they'll move along in another few days as the carnivorous plant life will consume the facility and them if they linger long. The clone doubted her at first, but with a little bit of digging she discovers that Hope is right and it's just the way of Pragia. She should have known better than to question her but is glad that she can. A twitching smile comes to Hope's lips when the clone pushes back against her.

Electricity remains functional though beakers litter counters, smashed into pieces. Tables are turned over and there are empty crates stacked along the walls. Whatever this lab was once, it no longer is and likely hasn't been for a very long time. The clone doesn't like it and has grown wary of these sorts of spaces.

Despite this, Hope seems in better spirits. She wears formfitting pants, boots and a tanktop. She ties her hair up and assumes a fighting stance. "Let's see what you're made of." She smirks, as if a joke has been made. The clone stares at her arms, smaller than her own but defined. The tanktop clings to her, hugging her hips and breasts until the clone's mouth goes dry. "Have you given up already?"

The clone knows what she wants. She approaches cautiously, lifting her arms, rolling her fingers into fists. Hope smiles and a tremor moves over the clone, making her unsteady. The lab is chilly but Hope told her they would build up a sweat. "I don't want to hit you," the clone says.

Hope's eyebrows narrow and quick as a whip she pummels a fist into her face. The left side of the clone's face goes numb before it begins to throb. "Then lie down and let me beat you to death. Better yet, let me find another batarian and turian to do it for me." The clone's jaw hardens, her heartbeat jumping. Hope takes another swing and the clone jumps back, the edge of Hope's fist brushing along her nose.

"You wouldn't do that."

"I'd do anything to make you fight," she spins on her heel. The clone is ready to try to defend against a punch, instead, she gets a foot buried in her stomach, sending her stumbling several feet backward. The clone goes lightheaded. Biotic power is beginning to course through her. It is electric and hot. She takes a breath to steady herself, to bury it. Hope was clear that this was only meant to be an exercise in hand-to-hand combat, no biotics.

"Not anything," the clone defends, unwilling to let Hope speak ill of herself. The ire in Hope's face grows and this time _She_ pursues her, full lips parting as if in anticipation. When Hope strikes, the clone is ready. It raises an arm, effectively blocking Hope from reaching her target. What she doesn't expect is another quick spin, for Hope's elbow to collide solidly with her face. The unexpected blow staggers the clone. The pain is blinding and she realizes too late, that it is a mistake to lower her arms for even a moment. Hope launches, jumping into the air.

A roundhouse kick, the clone realizes.

The next instant she's sailing through the air, doing a 360 before crashing violently. Her neck aches horrifically. The clone wipes at her face, blood running down her mouth and nose. Hope follows, features dark, straddling her, taking a fistful of the grey Alliance shirt she has forced the clone to wear and yanking her to a sitting. The clone can't look at her. Hope's disappointment washes over her in waves and it makes her sick to her stomach. "I barely even tried," Hope growls, "and you didn't try at all. You're fucking lucky the men who went after you were incompetent. Maybe they should have finished a useless—"

Hope doesn't finish the sentence. She's sent hurling back several feet through the air. The clone pales. She shouts Hope's name, getting up on wobbly legs, out of breath and stumbling after her. Hope has pushed off the floor, kneeling by the time the clone reaches her. The clone notices, with horror, that she's split Hope's lower lip. Pained, she reaches out to touch it gingerly. Hope's hand snaps around the clone's wrist, squeezing tightly. "I'm sorry," the clone says, anguished. Hope said no biotics. Hope said no biotics and she blasted her back like a rag doll. What's worse is that she can't control it. What if she hurts her? What if she kills her? "I didn't mean to cheat," she says hoarsely.

A small smile pulls Hope's lips up. "That's more bloody like it."

* * *

Miranda Lawson has the niggling feeling that Commander Shepard may have been a mistake. The thought is so alarming that she tries to bury it under all of Shepard's positives: she is an incredibly capable fighter and she has inspired loyalty that borders on zealotry. Most importantly, she defeated a Reaper.

So far, Shepard has kept them alive, despite her recklessness in battle, and they've secured the first selection of squadmates. They have gone to Horizon, found and battled Collectors and come out on top. So why is she unsettled?

Shepard's antagonistic attitude may have something to do with it. Miranda never expected Shepard to play nice but her open hostility is troublesome. Time and time again she ignores any direction Miranda tries to provide, spitting and spiting all that could prove beneficial to squad and mission because it's coming from the mouth of the "Cerberus Cheerleader". Shepard's taken to Jack's mockery of her quite well, much to Miranda's consternation.

Frankly, Miranda has enough on her plate without having to worry about Shepard. And she does worry. EDI keeps an "eye" on everything but not only that; the ship has all-encompassing 24-hour surveillance. Miranda knows Shepard is fucking Jack. It surprised her for a number of reasons but Shepard is childish and the fact that Miranda abhors the woman is likely reason enough for Shepard. What's worse is that Shepard's spoon-feeding Jack classified Cerberus data. Cerberus' reputation is somewhat fragile—thanks to Shepard's previous efforts to shed light on the black-ops group. To think of that lunatic Jack having access to it… And _why_ does Shepard give it to Jack? To fuck her? More likely it is to fuck Miranda and Cerberus.

Miranda had been under the impression that Shepard and Liara T'soni were an item—at least from the exchanges Miranda and the asari had previously, as well as Shepard's keen interest on all matters related to the woman. When Miranda refused to provide details on Liara's exact location, Shepard's discontent and contempt for her and Cerberus grew.

The woman is too focused on aliens. And her body is rejecting the implants. That is most worrisome of all. For two years Miranda slaved over the woman, working night and day, turning her from a pile of flesh and ground bone to a living, breathing being. It came at a cost, as these things do. It's more than the astronomical credits necessary to facilitate the project and bring her back. It was two years of Miranda's life and now her reputation is at risk. A lot of the implants are new, neural technology, highly experimental but with big payoffs. There was always the chance that Shepard would start to reject them. Miranda just never expected the process would begin so quickly.

If she had been allowed to implant her with the control chip things might be different. For example, she thinks bitterly, Shepard would agree to help her get Oriana to safety before her father snared her in his clutches. Instead, Shepard blew her off, stating there were other, more important things to do.

Currently those things include getting hammered at Purgatory and blowing through credits on asari strippers. Miranda's disdain grows. She has long been searching for the confidence the Alliance and the Illusive Man have in Shepard. It had been a bitter pill to swallow but she discarded her pride and asked not once, but twice for Shepard's aid. The Illusive Man refused her request to go on her own, stating that she was 'too valuable' to risk, reminding her where her loyalties and obligations lie. Despite her status and gifts she is only a pawn to be used to achieve others' means. In some ways, it is a feeling she has been trying to outrun for the majority of her life.

It is rare that Miranda gets angry. Anger is a waste of time; it's better to put one's mind to practical solutions. She knows that but can't help the anger. For two years she dedicated her life to bringing Shepard back. She averaged two to three hours of sleep a night during that time and despite her talents, it began to wear at her. She took some of it out on Wilson, much to his irritation. At least that bastard has been taken care of.

It's a pity the Lazarus Project facility was destroyed. She would have liked to search Wilson's records, see what other subterfuge the man was operating. He had a hand in working with the clones the Illusive Man insisted be created. Most of them didn't survive, lungs and hearts not developing properly, others' brains never growing. The creation of life is a difficult science. In a way, she can grudgingly understand her father's obsession with both her and Oriana, despite the disgust she feels.

Her work on the clones was limited. She was the head of the Lazarus Project and despite what she would have once described as the Illusive Man's over-cautiousness for what Shepard might 'need' if her work failed, she was sure that there would be no need for the clones, that Shepard would be brought back exactly as she once was. Failure was not an option and while, yes, Miranda has made mistakes in the past, she has never _failed_.

Confident, she allowed Wilson and Jones to oversee most of the clone work, provided that they keep her up to date on any developments. When there were developments, they were bad. Miranda wasn't surprised, given the project leads. If they expected any criticism they were disappointed. Miranda only instructed that they keep working—happy they were not interfering with her own work. Truthfully, she was somewhat grateful to them. The clone project reminded her too much of her father's. Motherless creatures built from pieces of an original, designed for excellence, for the most part discarded when they ended in failure. Hadn't Miranda made sure Shepard came back the right way? There are no deformities, the organs are in perfect condition, but the woman couldn't care less. Shepard owes her but isn't interested in paying her debts.

No matter. Miranda knows where she is and walks through Omega. Her destination: Afterlife. No matter the difficulties in her life, she has always been persuasive. She'll use a gun to get what she needs—but it's rare that she has to do anything more than talk to get what she wants.

She ignores the salarians and turians scattered around, smiling palely to herself at the elcor who refuses many of the zealous partiers eager to get into the club. The bass pounds through the metal floors, reverberating through her, rattling her heart. The lights flash brightly, massive screens showcasing scantily clad asari maidens that writhe and dip along metal poles, skin glistening tantalizingly. A few of them set their sights on her but she isn't interested in them under normal circumstances. She's here for Shepard and no one else.

Miranda makes her way through the throngs of alien and human clubbers. A human male makes the mistake of grabbing her ass. Without a glance backward she snaps his wrist, his howls of pain easily swallowed by the deafening music. Miranda spots Shepard sitting in a plush chair, an asari gyrating her hips slowly in front of her. Frowning, she goes to them. Shepard ignores her.

The asari has some resemblance to Liara T'Soni, her skin a pale blue hue, a splash of freckles dotting her cheeks. Her eyes, however, are innocent. Not like the shrewd, if not collected businesswoman Miranda met struggling to maintain her composure. "Shepard, we need to talk."

"Not right now, Miranda. Can't you see I'm busy?" Shepard picks up a tumbler glass beside her, a mixture of several colors. Miranda's frown deepens as Shepard takes a sip. What the hell is she drinking? A bit of everything? And if she burns a bloody hole through her stomach by ingesting something meant for turians and krogans, they'll have to track down a clone for a replacement.

"Leave us," Miranda tells the asari.

"No," Shepard says, grabbing hold of the asari's arm when she starts to go. Anger washes over Miranda, but she keeps her face composed. "I want you here all night." The asari hesitates but Shepard transfers credits over (the obscene sum comes up on Miranda's omni-tool) and the asari stays. "Take a hike, Miranda."

"You've wasted enough time on your hedonistic pursuits. I need to talk to you."

"Save your fancy words." She repositions herself on the seat, daring to bring her hands to the asari's hips. Shepard exhales slowly and even the asari dancer looks to be mesmerized by her. From the corner of her eye, Miranda can see a krogan bouncer to the left, and three human ones to the right, watching keenly. "If this is about your sister, don't bother." Miranda's throat clenches. "I'll be honest with you, Miranda. I don't like you. I don't trust you. I don't trust Cerberus. You may have brought me back but this is _my_ operation and what I say goes. So fucking drop it," her fingers tease the shimmering, mauve undergarment the dancer wears.

"Shepard—" Miranda bites her tongue before she says something that will rub her the wrong way, that will turn Shepard entirely against her. She suspects that Shepard already is but knows that if that isn't the case now is the time to be cautious. "I know you don't like me and you don't trust me. I hope that in time we'll give you reason to change your mind but this isn't about me. This is about an innocent girl—"

"She's your twin, right? Which means she's older than _me_. If she's as perfect as you think you are she'll be able to handle an overbearing father."

The krogan and human bouncers are approaching. Miranda lowers herself, trying to keep her lip from twitching, fighting desperately to keep her voice even. "Damn it, Shepard, do you think I'd come to you for help if I thought she could handle it? Do you know how it kills me to ask?"

"Yeah," she grins, "I do."

"You _owe_ me," she says heatedly.

"I don't owe you shit." Her fingers glide down along the asari's thigh. "I don't give a fuck what the Illusive Man thinks about you. You were here to bring me back. And you have. _Thanks_. I figure I stop the Collectors and save the world, our debt's more than even. So if that's all for now…? _You_ should go."

Miranda steps back. The krogan and human bouncers have arrived, pulling the asari back from Shepard. Shepard stands. "Do we have a problem?" she asks, her smile casual, the skin around her eyebrow breaking open to reveal a burning beneath.

"We were just leaving," Miranda tells them. As satisfying as it would be to watch the krogan and humans beat Shepard down, she _does_ know where her loyalties lie. Her grudge may not be a petty one but Shepard's safety and health supersedes everything, including her own sister, no matter how it pains her.

" _We_ weren't," Shepard says.

"No touching the merchandise," the krogan tells her loudly, his voice booming over the music. "Aria doesn't care who you are." Miranda glances over in her direction, wondering if Aria is taking an active interest in the events but sees no sign of it.

"Are we _going_ to have problem?" Shepard asks. Miranda wonders how much she's had to drink. The smell of it comes off of her skin and breath in waves. Omega isn't like Citadel clubs. These bouncers have weapons. The krogan isn't intimidated by Shepard but the humans anxiously finger the guns at their side.

"Yeah, I think we're going to have a problem," the krogan steps forward, his head butting viciously against Shepard's. Shepard falls back but is back up in an instant, gun cocked, trigger finger squeezing—

"Shepard, no!" Miranda does not want to start a war with Aria T'Loak. Shepard may be insignificant to her but her word is law here. Some human pushing and breaking the rules, no matter if they happen to be Commander Shepard, would be enough to contract a hit on her. They're barely halfway through their mission. Aria is vicious and tenacious. Her meddling could interfere with the entire operation. Miranda shoves Shepard's hand and the bullet discharges into the wall and not the krogan as Shepard intended.

The men attack all at once but Shepard is quick, dodging the butt of the rifle coming to the back of her head and lifting an arm, sending a violent shockwave through the club. Scattering not only the men, it sweeps up some of the other patrons, sending them flying in all directions. She springs, like a rubber band, with a biotic charge, staggering the krogan. He nearly falls over onto a stunned bachelor party, an asari hurriedly getting out of the way. The human bouncers rush her but Shepard takes her tumbler glass, smashing it into the face of one, blocking the swinging fist of another, giving him a hard kick to the balls and dropping him before snatching the assault rifle of the third and smashing it four consecutive times into his face. The noises he makes aren't even human anymore and he falls to the ground.

Miranda's eyes glow a startling blue in the darkness, already fearing the repercussions that could come from this. The clubbers are running in all directions and she sees those who aren't scared becoming hostile, reaching tentatively for the weapons tucked at their backs and sides. Miranda takes hold of Shepard's arm and pulls her. "We're _leaving_ ," she yanks her before shoving her ahead.

"Didn't want to stick around anyway," Shepard says, agreeing at last to go and making her way to the exit.

Miranda's reservations grow. She feared that Shepard wouldn't be up to the task and that fear solidifies with every waking moment.


	4. Nature

Hope told her that cheating is sometimes necessary to win. The clone isn't sure she agrees. She has been dispatched to Aeia, high in the mountains, where the air is thin and cold and fog always seems to be moving in.

The mountains are blanketed in tall pine trees. Hyun-shik, the old Korean hand-to-hand instructor Hope has secured for her, slams her against stout trees, knocking her to the ground over and over again until she's black and blue and swollen. Hope removed her amp when they arrived. "Learn to fight without biotics," she said. "They should be a weapon, not a crutch."

Hyun-shik feeds her enough to keep her alive (despite how he and Hope jovially eat generous meals in front of her) and has taken to referring to her as 'cow' when she has no name to offer him.

At night, when she shakes in the dark, breath fogging in the air, not given so much as a blanket or a rolling mat for comfort, she thinks of Hope who disappears for days, sometimes weeks at a time. She doesn't always tell her when she's going and the clone's moods rise and fall with her presence.

On the nights when Hope isn't beside her, the clone closes her eyes, willing herself to ignore the crippling pain earned each day. Her thoughts percolate. She considers hand-to-hand combat and technique, thinking on what Hyun-shik has taught her, distilling it down to a science.

The progress feels slow but Hope and Hyun-shik assure her it's anything but. The clone has begun to discard some of the formulas, as Hope has often advised, and begun to move on instinct. Weeks pass and her bruises lessen, she moves more quickly, gracefully, until one day she throws Hyun-shik to the ground.

What at first appears to be serendipity is replicated over and over again. Hope stands at the side of the open courtyard, arms crossed, approval in her eyes as Hyun-shik refers to her as a 'prized cow.' The clone bows to him, barely able to keep herself from beaming.

Hope strides over, resting an elbow on the clone's slick shoulder. "Even prized cows don't have a touch of grace like this one does," she tells Hyun-shik. "We're done here." Her eyes touch on the clone's. "Good work."

It is the first compliment Hope has given her. The clone reaches out to take Hope's hand but she's already moving on, off to gather their belongings, off to prepare for the next big thing.

* * *

There's an asari huntress named Neaira who is exceptional with hit-and-run tactics and biotics. A krogan battlemaster, Morkhel, who makes her fight varren and clanless krogan in an arena for the entertainment of his clan. All doubt she will last more than a day and all are proven wrong. Months pass and the clone's body grows stronger, harder, lean and muscled. Her biotic skills and powers have improved exponentially though she no longer offers juggling shows for Hope's benefit.

They head to a new safe house, deep in Asteria. The air is hot and muggy and they sit on the black leather couch, unbearable in the heat. Hope reaches out to sweep the clone's sweaty, damp hair to the side, in that casual way that she does, injection gun at the ready when the clone takes her arm. "No." It is the first time she has said the word to Hope. Hope's eyes search her face and then she lowers the gun, setting it aside. The clone doesn't release her arm, not even when Hope tugs at it. "What's my name?"

"Jane Shepard."

"What's _my_ name? That's _her_ name." She hasn't earned that name. What is a face? What does it matter when none of the accomplishments are her own? How many of her disappointments have been because she has not lived up to the Jane Shepard standard?

"Your name is _Jane_. _Shepard_."

"You never call me anything. I'm just 'her' and 'she.' I guess it's better than 'it.'" Bitterness peppers her voice. Uncomfortable anger bubbles in her stomach, rising steadily up her arms and chest, up her neck to her face until it burns. "Even animals have names." There is a flicker in Hope's eyes, dark and enticing before it is quickly suppressed. The clone's knuckles have gone white and she releases Hope, noticing she's left a handprint around her arm. The clone feels nauseous. "I have done _everything_ you've wanted."

Hope rubs her arm where the clone held her. "I'm going to need you to give me some space for the next few weeks. There are things that must be prepared to get you ready." She gets to her feet. "I want you to know that every moment of my existence, since before you woke, has been dedicated to you. That is always the case whether I'm with you or not." There's a beat. "I'm going to bed." The clone stands. "Sleep on the couch. We've shared a bed long enough."

The clone sits unsteadily when the bedroom door clicks shut.

* * *

 _As you likely know, the Normandy will be docking in Illium shortly. Given our prior collaboration, I am offering you the courtesy and opportunity to assess the success of the Lazarus Project. I'll follow up with you in person at the appropriate time._

— _M_

The message arrives on her terminal along with countless others. Her network connections are so great that they rival those of long established information brokers on Illium. If not for Nyxeris she'd be truly buried, despite how she doesn't use her as she should.

Other information brokers have armies of assistants, ready to comb through the data. But Liara trusts no one; she barely trusts Nyxeris. Securing Feron's location, as well as that of the Shadow Broker, is the most important thing. Everything else can wait, including Miranda Lawson and Commander Jane Shepard.

Her chest tightens, defiant and contradicting her thoughts. Liara clears her throat. There are calls to take, calls to make. Miranda sent her a brief message months ago letting her know that Shepard was alive and healthy. She had not allowed herself to cry tears of happiness or relief. Shepard may now be well but she endangered a friend and now he is in the Shadow Broker's clutches. It's foolish to think he's alive but Shepard is. If that's possible, then anything is.

She sends word to Nyxeris to arrange for Shepard to be greeted when she inevitably arrives. Promptly, she forgets about her, knowing how dangerous it could be to dwell on the woman she loved, cried over and gave up everything she was for.

She's in the midst of making threats of asari commando units and flaying people alive when the door hisses open. Nyxeris hangs like a gremlin in the back but Liara doesn't see her.

There she is. _Jane_. Everything is still and for a moment Liara is afraid she'll break, that she'll release the steel in her spine and eyes and _let go_. Isn't this what she's wanted? Isn't this what she fought for? Wasn't securing Shepard's body what lay the foundation for her new life?

It's really her.

Liara is stunned but Shepard is motion, going to her, taking her face in her hands and crushing their lips together. Liara moans softly, returning the kiss heatedly, her former bashfulness gone. Her fingers graze along the back of Shepard's neck. She feels the same, her mouth tastes the same, even her smell is familiar. They pull back, breathless.

Liara notices that they aren't alone. Aside from Nyxeris there is Garrus, flexing his mandibles, clearing his throat, looking reticent and embarrassed. Beside him is Subject Zero: Jack, full lips set in scorn, arms crossed. Liara thinks she must be cold wearing so little. The temperature in Illium is always moderated to be cooler.

"I heard you were alive," Liara rasps, her fingers touching along her face, pausing when Shepard takes her fingers to kiss them, moved by the small, delicate action, "but I didn't trust it. Not until now."

"It's good to see you too, Liara," Garrus comments. "It's only been two years," he drawls, "but no acknowledgement is necessary, really." Liara only smiles palely at him. "I guess Jack and I will… go for drinks. Sound like a plan?" he asks her.

"Anything's better than this shit," Jack says with a dismissive wave of the hand. She exits, Garrus following after. Nyxeris lingers until Liara gives her a knowing look, silently asking for privacy.

The door isn't closed for an instant when Shepard's lips are on hers again. Liara wishes she could give in to this, give in to her. She still remembers the last time they made love.

In those mundane days when they were relegated to hunting geth, those hours were the best part of their days. Battle-weary and worn they would retreat to Shepard's cabin, shower and fall into bed. They didn't always make love. Sometimes they fell asleep reading datapads or watching a vid. Other times they worked themselves to exhaustion, their hands constantly searching, mouths never separating for too long as they melded time and time again.

It was beautiful. They were beautiful and pure. The once intimidating commander wasn't what the reporters or articles said. Yes, she was ruthless but she was kind. She did what she thought was best, and it usually was—even if her means were sometimes questionable.

"I've missed you," Shepard says and when she leans in again, Liara expects a kiss. She is surprised, instead, by how tightly Shepard's arms wrap around her. Liara is incapable of moving. She closes her eyes, once again fighting to not abandon everything she has worked towards in the years since Shepard died.

When Shepard's grip slackens, Liara pulls back to look at her. She's different than before. Her skin is coming apart as if she were a rag doll. Shepard notices her but is still as Liara's fingers explore her face, exploring that which is still intact and that which is falling away. "I've missed you." She creates some distance between them, retreating behind the desk and ignoring Shepard's disappointment. "My contacts say you're after the Collectors now. And working with Cerberus," a wry smile touches her lips.

"They're working for me," Shepard snaps. She shakes her head. "I've been asking that bitch Miranda Lawson for months now to tell me where you are." Liara waits, finding red flecks in her eyes where there used to be green. "You know I have my reasons." Liara thinks Shepard means it as a question but it comes across as a declarative. "So you're making threats these days. Never thought I'd hear those kinds of things coming out of your mouth."

"Yes, well. It's been a very long time." Yes, she's an asari. It confounds her how it confounds humans whenever she makes similar statements. As if grief and anguish have not ever colored time, slowing it to a crawl, extending a terrible moment of blinding explosions and flashing lights in a black sky, and searing it into a memory to be played over and over again. "It's necessary if people are to take me seriously."

"Mean any of it?"

"Yes." It should embarrass her. When Shepard knew her, she would have found such assertions and threats uncouth. Things are different now. You have to become different when staying the same will crush who you are. "Are you here for any particular reason?" her voice slips easily back into information broker mode. "I could tell you what you need to know. I won't charge."

Shepard smiles. "I'm looking for a drell assassin and a justicar. I'm supposed to recruit them, but I don't care about that right now." She moves around the desk, taking hold of Liara's hips. "Say you'll come back with me." Liara shakes her head before the words are out of Shepard's mouth. The small action provokes a frown on Shepard's face. "Why not?"

"There are…things that need my attention. And that's all I can tell you right now. Please don't ask." Liara doesn't look at her. She feels Shepard's fingers bury into her skin but keeps her face composed and unresponsive. "So much time has passed."

"Not for me," Shepard says edgily. Liara dares to look at her. She isn't sure what fills Shepard's face more—heartache or anger. She takes a breath and Liara is relieved when her hold loosens. "You're all I think about since they brought me back. I am as in love with you as I was the day I got spaced. You can't tell me you don't feel the same way."

"It's been two years, Jane." Liara licks her lips nervously, surprised at the feeling that she long ago discarded. Shepard always had a way of putting her on edge. "I… I'm not sure what I feel." Yes, she does. She loves her still, with all of her heart, with every fiber of her being. But she knows Shepard. She knows what telling her those words will do, how they will be used to get what she wants. Yes, Shepard could be pure but she wasn't always. Shepard could also be cruel. Even love was a weapon. "I care about you." Shepard scoffs. "But I don't have time to figure out what this is. And neither do you." Shepard releases her roughly, eyes focused dangerously on Liara. "Maybe that isn't what you wanted to hear. But I can't give you more."

Shepard bows her head, lips twisting. Her biotic aura throbs and Liara remembers when it beat in time with her heart, how it would flare and fill a darkened room when their lovemaking became particularly rigorous. "How about a fuck?" she asks.

Liara has heard her speak in this manner before. Sometimes when she said the words there was a twinkle in her eye and Liara would appease her. Despite what Shepard thought, she too came to crave their special time together, enjoyed becoming more than just herself, become fuller somehow. This time there is no sparkle to her eye, not even a telling smile. "No," Liara says simply.

A long time passes and then Shepard asks about the assassin, about the justicar. Liara is happy to provide answers though Shepard receives them indifferently and without appreciation. It is with great shame that Liara asks Shepard to aid her in securing the identity of an enemy agent known as _the Observer_. Shepard smiles faintly as Liara speaks.

"I've got enough shit to do," Shepard says. "I don't need to waste my time on someone who refuses to be on my team." She stands, turning her back to her and going to the door, rounding sharply. "Jesus Christ, didn't any of what we had mean anything to you?" Liara bites her lip, staring at her hands on her desk. She could use her love to get Shepard to do what she wants but it doesn't strike her as fair or right. "Just tell me where to go," Shepard growls, leaving without a glance back.

* * *

Hope keeps her steps controlled and searches the safe house thoroughly. She can no longer deny it. The clone is gone.

No matter how Hope resists, she cannot overcome the panic that spikes into her gut. Gone. She's gone.

The clone has become a petulant, sulking thing since Hope restricted her from sharing a bed. She has begun to notice, with some sliver of pleasure and uncertainty, how the clone has started to eye her. Hope is accustomed to men and women desiring her but doubts the clone knows she's doing it. No amount of academic knowledge can prepare a person for infatuation, nor can it teach them how to temper any wild ideas they may begin to have.

What Hope knows is that both love and lust are a distraction. It will reduce a person to cravings and whims. It could ruin everything. Hope acknowledges that she could use the clone's burgeoning desires to better direct it towards their goals. The clone has become willful in the past several months, every strength achieved a barrier created between them, independence gained.

Commander Shepard is one of the most willful individuals in the galaxy, no doubt about it. This is part of the process and Hope is glad that things are moving steadily forward. However, she cannot deny that if the clone becomes too independent, too willful, she may decide to abandon Hope altogether and go her own way. If Shepard should fail, it would be a loss for the galaxy and a setback for the clone. She wouldn't know how to make it on her own. Not as she ought to.

Hope's ideas and plans are in conflict. On the one hand, she cannot allow the clone to get too attached to her. The clone is meant to be a lone wolf. Attachments are a hindrance. Attachments lead to compromise. She does not want to foster any emotion in the woman. What she needs is clear, calculated action that will allow her to efficiently get the job done. On the other hand, if Hope keeps her at a distance, the clone may leave. She has implanted her with a tracking device but should she discover it…

Hope exits into the night, the darkness kept at bay by flashing neon lights in bright pinks, red and blues. Rain falls in sheets and Hope scowls as she's instantly soaked. There are cabs zipping through the skies, individuals laughing and running through the rain. It's hard to hear anything through the storm save for water splashing. The clone could have gone in any direction. She exhales slowly, thankful that she thought things out in advance.

A few clicks on the omni-tool and the area map comes up, along with the clone's red, blinking location. Hope sighs with relief. The tracker is tiny, no larger than a grain of rice, buried in the underside of the clone's forearm. Hope follows the trail, making her way past red sand dealers and groups of mercenaries that eye her suspiciously.

She stops, stumped, at a theatre. Not just any threatre. There is an outline of an asari woman at the top, blinking blue and pink. Red XXX fades in and out lethargically. Hope's jaw tenses and she moves inside, paying the humiliating fee to enter, eventually tracking her down to a room filled mostly with men who've unzipped their flies, clenched fists moving rhythmically.

Hope sighs inwardly, hating the sticky floors and the musky smell to the place. She spots the clone several rows down, closer to the front and takes a seat beside her. "You have _got_ to be kidding me," she bristles. Here she is in a porn theatre. Not only that, an asari porn theatre. "Is this what gets you off?" She hopes not.

"I don't know. Maybe. They're so weird with those tentacles. I didn't want to come here. I just couldn't help it."

"You idiot. You know you can get this all over the extranet, for free. And in a clean environment."

"I knew you'd complain if I did it there. Don't try to deny it." The clone looks at her and then back at the screen where two oiled asari are writhing against one another, panting and crying out to goddesses. A hanar wearing a utility belt watches in the corner. _This one had not expected this when coming by to make repairs._ Hope notices that the top button of the clone's pants is undone."How did you find me?" she asks.

"That's not important."

"Did you put a tracking device on me?" She asks. _Shit_. The clone doesn't sound particularly surprised, only irritated. "It's just like you to do that."

"Or maybe you're not half so clever as you think. You're naïve. And sloppy." Hope tries to ignore the meat slapping noises behind her. She hates the clone for dragging her to such a filthy establishment. The clone looks at her heatedly. "Don't you _ever_ leave without telling me where you're going. Do you understand?"

The clone takes labored breaths and Hope isn't sure if it's from anger or arousal. Hope crosses her legs, annoyed at the spark it sends up her spine. "I asked you a question."

"I don't feel like talking to you right now."

"Too bad." Hope says. The clone stands, buttons her pants and walks out. Hope follows her outside. It's still pouring. "Don't you walk away when I'm talking to you." But the clone continues to walk, acting as if she hasn't heard her at all. Hope reaches out, grabbing her rain-slicked arm but even her vicious grip isn't enough to hold her. The clone yanks her arm free, her eyes murderous.

"Who do you think you are?" the clone asks. "You treat me like a child."

"You _are_ a child."

The clone's nostrils flare, fists clenching. Hope wonders if she's going to hit her. Hope wonders if she would be happy or hurt if she did. Yes. This is what she's been trying to forge her into. She's read extensively on Commander Shepard's volatile moods, on her fearsome temper. This is the clone's nature, she supposes. Yes. This is progress. The clone has to become hard as diamonds, unshakable, unrelenting, unstoppable. Hope only wishes for her to exert a greater control over those feelings. She wants her to chill them until they are removed. It isn't enough to become Shepard. She has to surpass her.

Their argument is interrupted with the arrival of the mercenaries Hope spotted earlier. She stands straighter and surveys the group. Seven of them. Turians, batarians, humans. The glow of the neon lights reveal their rain-beaded armor: Blue Suns. Does the clone realize how she moves in front of Hope, like a shield? It's unnecessary but Hope is glad for the insight.

"Do we have a problem?" the clone asks, her smile casual.

"Not with you," a turian says. His face looks soft in the rain, with the splash of the neon lights. His blue face paint is running, comically making it look as if drawn tears are sliding down his face. "But your friend here looks like someone Cerberus has an eye on."

"Cerberus?" Hope says with a caustic laugh. "Don't you know they want to end idiots like you?"

"Don't give a damn what they think," a batarian steps forward, assault rifle in hand. Hope notices how the clone's body tenses at its approach. No doubt she's reliving the night the Blue Suns tried to kill her. "As long as they're paying credits."

Hope had not anticipated this attack. It's the clone's fault for scampering off without permission. It's a hiccup in her plans. One that must be immediately resolved. The clone smiles again, taking a step forward. "You don't want to do this. So why don't you take this opportunity to walk away?"

The Blue Suns look at each other and laugh. One of them prods the clone's shoulder with the butt of his shotgun, sending her stumbling back a step. "You must be new around here. So I won't blow your brains out. If you give me the credits that are being offered up for her." The clone's smile tenses. "Five million should cover it."

The clone looks at Hope who shakes her head. She looks back at the group. "Walk away. Or…are we _going_ to have a problem?"

Hope retrieves the sidearm tucked behind the small of her back, then presses the barrel of the M-5 Phalanx to the forehead of the shotgun-wielding batarian. She pulls the trigger and his head explodes, sending chunks out in all directions, splashing blood and goop across her face and the clone's. "I think we're going to have a problem," Hope says. "Kill them," she instructs the clone. "Kill them all."

Hope cloaks and removes herself from the battle. She has taken the ability to negotiate from the clone, as the world often will. Now all she has to do is survive. Hope is confident that she will. A torrent of gunfire rains out but the clone is quick with her barrier. An instant later she's flung a human, a batarian and a turian from the high bridge they stand on. Hope smiles. It's like the beginning of a joke, the only punchline being that Shepard's clone is almost as good at killing as Shepard is.

The clone has no weapon—initially. It rips a heavy pistol away from one of the humans, a moment later throwing out a singularity to send them flying into the air. She detonates it with a warp field, hurling the men in opposite directions, some of them no longer whole.

Only one remains, screaming, spinning helplessly in the air. Hope uncloaks and stands beside the clone. "Look at that," Hope says, her voice lighter than usual, cheerful, pleased. "Not one shot fired. I'm very impressed." Unfortunately she doesn't fight like a vanguard, she fights like an adept. That can be resolved in time, she thinks. For the time being, she is pleased.

The clone returns her smile, pressing the barrel of the gun to the turian's head and pulling the trigger. His screams are cut off sharply. Dead and bleeding he continues to spin, blood forming in a puddle below him before he flops lifelessly to the ground. "I'd hate to get predictable," the clone says.

The rain falls. Hope looks at the clone, lifting a tentative, careful hand to cup her face.

* * *

It just isn't the same anymore. New shiny ship, Shepard and Joker aboard, but everything's different. Shepard's taking orders from smoking men on holograms. She's welding herself to Liara's face one minute and walking off with Jack an hour later at a club. She returns alone, the smell of Jack all over her.

Jack's a wreck but she's a powerhouse. Garrus figures they need powerhouses these days. It never gets easier. Saren, the geth, all of it feels like a lifetime ago. Different crew, different set of eyes, they were naïve and hopeful then.

He keeps looking to Shepard to set him straight. When he joined the _Normandy_ nearly three years ago she gave him no quarter, pulled no punches. She admired his ability and willingness to cut past the red tape and do what needed to be _done_. And _maybe_ he had a small case of hero worship. Not that he'd ever tell her that.

Now their old crew is gone and they're working with an old enemy. Shepard doesn't give assurances about Cerberus and he isn't sure he'd believe her if she tried. He hates to admit it, but the XO runs a tighter ship than Shepard does. Maybe death will do that to a person. She's only just come back. These things aren't natural. Maybe it will take some time. Is there time?

He grunts, unsettled by the thoughts. It's not like that, really. Shepard only relaxes around him. He's flattered. They've made it this far with no casualties. They're slightly behind schedule, he thinks, but… He grunts again, trying not to think of it.

He's parked on a stool in the battery of the _Normandy SR-2_ , calibrating the guns. Helps him think, set his mind at ease. There's something soothing about constant repetition, tweaking, adjusting.

Shepard's been jumpy since Illium, ultimately deciding against finding the assassin and the justicar. Instead she'd wanted drinks and they'd gone to a bar, talked to a matriarch with a bigger quad than Garrus had ever seen. Shepard chatted up the matriarch bartender while Garrus, having overheard a conversation at a bachelor party, became obsessed with whether asari play some kind of mind trick on other species.

Shepard's mood verged from sadness to anger. Mostly the second. She's always been a little rough around the edges. She was never a big fan of Cerberus. Other species' find Cerberus a nuisance but humans are another thing altogether, opinions diverging wildly. Shepard goes apoplectic at the mention of them.

Garrus figures she owes them a favor. It worried him before but the doubt dwindles away the more she mouths off to Miranda, when she snaps at the pesky, intrusive AI. She never acknowledges Jacob. Garrus doesn't think Shepard is of the mind to pay back any debts. She did do that errand for Liara though. Shepard's always had a soft spot for Liara…

The door to the battery opens but Garrus doesn't turn. He doesn't mind Daniels or Donnelly but if Gardner has come by to try to test out a new 'food' on him, he'll shove the wrench he's using up his ass. The side of his face itches beneath the gauze that's still taped to his face and he flexes his mandible, trying not to touch the aching, burning skin. He discreetly lifts the wrench to his face to try and sooth some of the itchiness.

"Careful. You'll scar," Shepard says. Garrus smiles, looking back at Shepard who lifts a six-pack of beer. Garrus looks with keen interest at the bottles and is glad to see that it's an assorted pack with turian beers included. "Come on, it's time for some shore leave. And screw your calibrations," she spots the wrench in his hand. "Let's hustle."

She exits and Garrus reluctantly follows after her. Gardner shoots him a look, lifting a bowl of food. Garrus shakes his head and keeps moving. So many uniformed Cerberus agents. At least there's Dr. Chakwas. "Didn't we just have shore leave?" he asks.

"Garrus," her voice sing-songs, "you're sounding like Miranda."

He chuckles, not imagining how that could be possible. The woman is hard and calculating but her voice is silken—when she isn't tearing Shepard down, anyway. Shepard has told him about Miranda's statements of perfection. He's never had a thing for humans but he can admit she's… well-shaped. They exit the _Normandy_ and move through Illium's crowds again, taking a taxi up to some impossibly tall building that still manages to be well-tended. They step off onto the roof and the world is spread out before them. "If you wanted to get me alone, Shepard, you just had to ask."

She grins, seeing him eye the liquor and throwing him a bottle. He catches it, popping the lid with ease and taking a long, cool drink. Turian alcohol is hard to find outside of Citadel space, requisitioning it isn't cheap or easy.

"Ah, that hit the spot. Thanks," he gets a nod in response. Shepard stands on the railing of the building. It's six inches wide at most and the wind is kicking. He knows better than to tell her to be careful but he casually inches closer. "You know, I love a drink as much as anyone," but they've pounded some back earlier today and he's starting to get a headache, "but we should probably start buckling down. We aren't halfway through those dossiers yet. We're here…" he points out gently.

"I noticed." Shepard takes a drink, head tilted back. Garrus keeps an eye on her. "You watching me too, Garrus? I came here to get away from prying eyes." Her eyes flare bright and indignant.

"I'm hurt. I thought you were too shy to ask me for a date."

That gets her to smile. "Thank God you're here." There's a long pause. They stare out into the horizon. There are lights everywhere but it still doesn't dull the skies, flushed with lavenders and pinks, oranges and dark blues. Garrus wonders if he's feeling sentimental. "Illium's something, isn't it?"

"Oh, it's pretty all right. Very… _asari_. Good views. Good vistas. Good for sniping," he says. She smiles again. It dulls that growing red ring to her eyes. "And… for some… entertainment." Her fingers play with the label on the beer bottle. "You're not going to make me ask, are you?" Shepard's eyes are dark. "Turians aren't known for gossip. But uh—I always thought…blue was more to your tastes." She frowns. "Was a bit of a shock when I came back on-board and Liara wasn't there. What's the matter," he jokes, "have you lost your touch?"

Her eyes blaze hot with anger. Things were formal between the two of them in the beginning. She wasn't bad for a human. She wasn't bad for anyone. Eventually Shepard relaxed, and some of their professional camaraderie developed into a friendship. Ribbing each other was common. He couldn't believe it was really her when she appeared in Omega. In some ways it's still hard to believe. But the memories are there. That isn't something you can fake. "Go back to sniping thugs and leave those kinds of questions for those who have played in the big leagues."

Garrus laughs shortly but can tell she's bothered. Her response might irk him on a day he was feeling particularly sensitive, but not today. "Then…you and Jack…"

"Drop it, Garrus."

He decides to do just that. Shepard's exploits and conquests have never been that interesting to him. He's only trying to make conversation. Garrus isn't sure if Shepard is ready for it.

Shepard begins to pace on the ledge of the building, making Garrus tense. Her balance is incredible but all it would take is one slip to send her tumbling down below and he's pretty sure there aren't spare copies of her running around. Not that a copy could ever cut it, not that it could ever be the real thing. They'd be screwed. "We need to get rid of the cameras. We need to get rid of _them_." Garrus lifts his eyes to her. "Miranda. Jacob." She massages her temple. "Maybe Jack," she says thoughtfully, "I don't know. You can't trust people like that. And that krogan. Bred in some lab somewhere," she shakes her head again. "It's not right."

"Well, Shepard, I'll admit it—we're pretty bad ass. But even we can't take the Collector's down on our own. We still have five of the dossiers to hunt down. What if you like them less than Miranda?" He asks. She laughs dryly. "Come on, get down from there, you're making me nervous."

She doesn't. "Garrus, I don't trust anyone on the ship. How am I supposed to fight Collectors when I'm worried they're going to stab me in the back? I get rid of them… maybe Kaidan will come back. Maybe Liara will. We can find Tali, wherever the hell she is. I just—I really need the old team back."

"Right." He finishes his beer and sets it aside. "And what if you don't get them? I know I don't have Liara's curves or Tali's—but you might just have to settle for me." This time she doesn't smile, her brow furrowing deeper, her eyes glinting red. "We can't kill them," he jokes.

Shepard paces, jaw set hard before eventually jumping down beside him. "Maybe not. Maybe you're right." She rubs her eyes and sighs. "Garrus, when the time comes I need to know that you'll have my back."

He means to ask what time she refers to. "I'll always have your back, Shepard."

She nods once distracted. "Good." More assured. "Good."


	5. Nurture

They're behind schedule. Some would argue there isn't a timeline set in stone. Miranda would beg to differ. She understands parameters and guidelines. She understands that some things are time sensitive. Currently, Collectors are abducting hundreds of thousands of humans. Their purpose has yet to be determined but Miranda doesn't need to know the _why_. Not yet. What she _does_ need is for Commander Shepard to get off her ass and do what she was brought back for.

Miranda can't help but think of the time and expense poured into her, poured into bringing back a legend that is failing to meet expectations by a considerable margin.

The commander doesn't attend meetings, refuses to look over data that she and EDI have gathered. The only talents she appears to have are fighting, drinking and whoring. The situation is grim. Thus far she's only managed to secure Thane from the new batch of dossiers. Jacob is constantly at his throat and any attempts at getting Shepard to mediate the situation are met with indifference. _Long as they're out in the field killing Collectors I don't care what they do on their off time._

Jacob has always played it on the straight and narrow. Miranda knows what kind of man he is. She understands his reservations and _if_ she had the time, she'd be happy to discuss the issue with him. Ultimately, their squad is not negotiable. They may not be the best humanity has to offer—but they are the most qualified to accomplish their seemingly impossible mission. She thinks idly of the dossiers, and wonders how these individuals came to be selected for the mission. Miranda wasn't involved; the Illusive Man entrusted that task to someone else. They are tempered and cool, vicious and unforgiving. It doesn't matter as long as they are suitable.

Miranda's task was to recreate Shepard, to bring her back from oblivion, reconstruct her, make her whole again. She did that. So why does she doubt her work? Is it her fault that Shepard is meandering? She knows how the media and the Alliance will build someone up to surpass who they _really_ are. Garrus appears satisfied. Maybe that's telling enough a sign. Yet, she can't let it go. It's why she goes to _him_.

The Illusive Man exhales cigarette smoke slowly. They're only interacting via holographic interface but Miranda remembers the sweet smell of his cigarettes, the bitter underlying scent. He rubs his temple gently with his index and middle finger. Miranda worries that she's the cause for his headache.

Miranda knows herself capable of quickly grasping the nature of a person moments within meeting them. That is always the case except for one: the Illusive Man. She knows little about him save for the vapid profile pieces several magazines have done, waxing poetic about his conquests at parties, how deep his pockets run, how stylishly he presents himself. But none of that matters and none of that is who he really is.

His eyes are machine-like. Miranda wishes she could look into his files, see in what ways he has been augmented. She knows no matter how high up on the chain she is, that is something she will never have access to.

He taps some ash into the ashtray, straightening his back, setting his eyes on her. "You have concerns. But Shepard is performing as we expected." Miranda bites her tongue. "We didn't bring her back for her winsome personality. We brought her back because of what she could do. So far she's managed to find out the cause of the human abductions. The Collectors are a force to be reckoned with but they haven't slowed her down."

"What about her excessive partying?" Miranda asks, barely able to keep her voice even. "The crew is at each other's necks. She's not providing any kind of leadership and she constantly works to undermine Cerberus. We should have implanted her with that control chip. We still can."

The Illusive Man takes another long drag of his cigarette, the bright red tip making his face appear warmer than it is. "It is _your_ job to keep things under control, Miranda. That includes Commander Shepard." Smoke blows steadily from his nostrils before he crushes the cigarette. "If you _can't_ do that, I'll find someone who can."

His hologram fidgets before fading away entirely, leaving Miranda in the dark.

* * *

Miranda doesn't lift her head when she hears the door open. It's 5:46am and she's been up for an hour, trying to craft her latest report for the Illusive Man. He wants results and constant updates but since Horizon things have slowed to a crawl. Commander Shepard is more obstinate than ever, no matter how she swears that she's 'taking care of it.' Sometimes Shepard sits in the mess hall, wearing a Cerberus hoodie with the hood pulled over her head. She won't move for hours.

Miranda massages her forehead, finally turning to her visitor. Ah, Kelly Chambers. The redhead with the plastic smile and soft, encouraging voice. She was a member of the Lazarus Cell but the two rarely had any interaction during Shepard's reconstruction. Miranda isn't even sure she considers psychology a real science. Measurements and quantifiable results are fuzzy at best.

Miranda recalls nearly retching when the yeoman introduced herself to Shepard, laying it on so thick she nearly needed to be hosed down. "Shouldn't you be at your post?"

"I'm on my way," Kelly says. Unlike the other members of the crew, she isn't cowed by Miranda's persona and reprimands. It is unusual to meet someone who isn't intimidated by her. It leads Miranda to believe that there is more to the woman than meets the eye. She has looked at her records extensively. She was an exceptional student but Cerberus doesn't take an interest in anyone who isn't. For Cerberus and the role she has been granted on the _Normandy_ , she is unexceptional. "Commander Shepard has 352 unread messages." Miranda waits. "I've reminded her. She isn't listening."

"What else?" she snaps.

"Morale is low. You above everyone know how the Lazarus Cell worked at resurrecting Commander Shepard. The crew expected… someone different." Kelly lifts her datapad, scrolling through it. "Jack has been asking to see Commander Shepard for weeks. As has Jacob. Grunt. Mordin. And now Thane." Miranda abandons the report, feeling a headache begin to throb at the base and corners of her skull. "I've analyzed their records and histories. I believe they are carrying past trauma with them that need to be resolved."

"Kelly, I have a great deal to do. Have you tried impressing the point on the Commander?"

"I have. Many times, in fact. The Commander is… forceful and at times… distracting."

So she's useless. Miranda bites back the comment. Kelly meets her gaze directly, no matter how Miranda scowls at her. Her eyes are stark like a porcelain doll's. "Kelly, I'm going to need you to maintain a professional relationship with the Commander from this point forward, is that clear? If you are unable to do so you will be relieved of your post." Kelly stares back at her. A moment later, she nods. Miranda narrows her eyes. "What is your assessment of her?"

"You've put me in a bit of a spot. I don't have all her notes." She straightens, folding her arms behind her and takes a breath. "Commander Shepard appears to be exhibiting a degree of troubling behaviors. She is reckless with her squad's feelings and has taken to drinking heavily. She engages in promiscuous sex, with many of the crew, in fact." Miranda is impressed that Kelly doesn't blanch at the words. "She's angry and resentful of our organization. She despises you and Jacob in particular, and has withdrawn from healthy social activity and any community supports. Overall she presents as depressed."

Miranda grits her jaw tightly, teeth grinding. This is everything she knew. Everything she feared. She may be exceptional with the hard lines and laws of science but human behavior is a murkier area than she is accustomed to dealing with. She cannot doubt Kelly's words. "This is going to present a problem."

"It already is, Ms. Lawson. I have received word from Kasumi Goto and Zaeed Massani, wondering if we are looking to breach the contracts we've made with them. Even breaking those contracts would cost Cerberus a sizable sum. Not to mention—"

"I know what the stakes are. Forward all those communications to me. I'll handle them. While you're at it, forward me everything you have on the current squad." If Shepard isn't ready to lead then she'll have to get used to Miranda taking the reins. It isn't what she wanted but taking authority fits her like a glove. At least this way she'll be sure it's done right.

* * *

 _You think I'd discuss anything with you? No fucking way._ Miranda can't say she's surprised by Jack's reaction. The woman is a loose cannon and she doesn't trust Cerberus. The experiments Cerberus did on her were a tad extreme but they provided results. Not that they will mean anything if she can't sort out whatever issues she's hung up on.

Mordin is more affable, taking a deep breath that signals that he is no doubt ready to talk at a rapid pace for a good chunk of time. Mordin is cold and calculating but Miranda has often been called the same. What matters is that he's brilliant. He's already saved them from the Collectors' seeker swarms. Prior to his involvement with this mission, he was instrumental in creating the genophage, saving the galaxy from krogan expansionism. He is necessary, not only to the mission, but to the world at large. "Former assistant. Maelon. On Tuchanka. Worried what Blood Pack will do. Cannot discover his work on the genophage project. Could result in Maelon's death. Worse, torture before death. Unacceptable. Must go to Tuchanka. Tried to tell Shepard. Shepard says 'not now, Mordin, busy.'" He takes another deep breath. Miranda sees herself reflected in his large, black eyes. "Would be favor to me."

And no matter how controlled the salarian scientist is, Miranda can see he's troubled, as well as the considerable effort it took to ask. Much like she asked for Shepard's assistance and was turned away time and time again. "No promises, Mordin but I'll see what I can do."

He appears somewhat satisfied with that and she moves along to Engineering. The tank-bred krogan they recovered from Warlord Okeer resides there. Grunt is a petulant child. He's been making a mess of the port cargo hold for days. She and EDI advised Shepard against opening his tank—Shepard went ahead and did whatever the hell she wanted, as is her habit—and has since ignored him. Miranda braces herself and enters the hold. She quickly sidesteps the vestiges of the tank that he throws in her direction. It crashes into the wall behind her with a splintering clang. "Oh. It's you." His baritone voice is filled with more anger than usual. He quickly stomps his way over to her, practically charging. Miranda doesn't flinch. "Heh. Thought a puny thing like you would go running." He lifts a massive hand dismissively. "Go away, Human. I don't want you. I want Shepard."

"Shepard isn't available. You'll have to work with me." What she doesn't tell him is that he's getting the better deal. EDI informed her that when Shepard let Grunt out of the tank she pointed a gun at him. Krogan don't have much luck around Shepard. And neither will anyone else if she doesn't snap out of whatever funk she's in and begin acting like a commanding officer. "Is there any reason you're tearing the ship apart?"

He stares at her for a long time, his clawed hands curling into fists. He snorts derisively, pacing, pacing. Each step he takes thunders beneath her like an earthquake. Grunt was bred in a tank. It's possible that Okeer made mistakes, that he isn't mentally fit or healthy. Krogan have a reputation for being violent and aggressive but not like this, not without reason. She is not like Okeer. Shepard is not like Grunt.

"Shepard promised me purpose. I am Krogan. I am _strong_. Stronger than the rest of the puny things on this ship. I was promised action. Enemies that threaten galaxies. But here I am. Still captive. No better than the Tank. I long to get my hands on our enemies. Tear those insects apart piece by piece. Crush their heads in my hands until their blood and bone—"

"If you have a point, get to it."

He looks offended. Lips thinning, hiding his jagged teeth. He snorts again derisively. It's almost comical. He lifts his head to look at her, then, pointedly, curls a fist and slams it into the window overlooking the hanger bay. Miranda mentally calculates the cost of the repair while spiderweb cracks form along the glass. "I am restless. Angry." She crosses her arms. "I will not be looked at by your human or salarian doctor. Only true krogan on Tuchanka can help me."

Great. Two of the crew wants to head to the wasteland that is Tuchanka. At the very least it will be only one stop and won't throw them entirely off course.

"I'll speak to Shepard," she tells him absently.

Through the spider-cracked glass she can see the crew gathered round two people tangled in combat. The krogan steps beside her to chuckle at the display. It's Shepard and Jacob. Some of the crew bring their hands to their faces and look away. Miranda swears inwardly, quickly making her way to the shuttle bay.

* * *

Crates are scattered in every direction, some ripped open, spilling over with spare _Normandy_ parts: scraps, cogs, pipes. Shepard's hand is wrapped around the fabric of Jacob's uniform, before she brutally slams a fist into his face. Jacob falls to the floor, sliding back several feet. It's hard to make Jacob angry but even as the blood runs down his temple and nose, the area around his eyes already beginning to swell, Miranda can see that he's livid.

Their eyes meet and though Miranda stiffens, Jacob shakes his head. Shepard has her back to her, spine straight as a rod, bloody fists glowing blue. "Come on, Jacob. Is that all you got?" She advances. "I can't believe the Alliance would ever take an embarrassment like you. You're not even man enough to fight back."

"You're my commanding officer," he growls, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. "We didn't spend two years bringing you back so I could put you right back into the ground."

"Oh, so you think you have what it takes." Shepard laughs bitterly. A metal pipe scrapes along the floor, grating until it flies into her hand. She wraps her fingers tightly around it. "I'm really hoping there's some fight in you _somewhere_. I _hate_ putting down someone who won't even put up a fight."

Jacob is a proud man. Miranda knows why he won't let her intervene. But this is madness. What is he trying to prove? No doubt Miranda has convinced him about the success of the project. No doubt he thinks Shepard capable of what is demanded. He can't give her a kick of biotics—if she's the real thing and he snaps her neck he'll be taking out the galaxy's greatest hope against the Collectors.

Miranda looks around the shuttle bay. The crew is mortified, disgusted. This is their fearless leader? Not that she thinks Shepard fears anything. Maybe some fear is reasonable, necessary. Maybe it makes you moral. But who can stare death in the face, come back and be afraid of anything? Miranda takes a step forward. If only the Illusive Man hadn't ruled out the control chip. "Shepard. You're out of control."

"Stay out of this, Miranda," Shepard barks. "So help me God…" Shepard marches up to her, thrusting her face close; she hits Miranda with her spittle. "You bring me back to run this shit show," she hisses, "I expect the crew to follow orders. I want to get some energy out. I want to spar with your _boy_ , I expect him to spar. Not this 'no, Ma'am, can't do that Ma'am' bullshit. Don't try to tell me you Cerberus assholes have some code of honor."

"We're here to support you on this mission, Shepard. No more. We're not punching bags," she lowers her voice, "for your tantrums. You're jeopardizing the mission." Shepard glowers, hot breath spilling over Miranda. Miranda's gaze is unwavering.

Shepard stomps off. Jacob's gotten to his feet. "Did I say you could get up?" she asks. She buries the end of the pipe into his stomach and he doubles over. She's raising the pipe over his head when Garrus' talons wrap around her arm. Shepard looks at him, furious and then mollified. Miranda thinks she must make up the shame and sadness that fills her features.

"That's enough for now," Garrus says. "You know he couldn't stand up to you if he tried." He keeps his hand wrapped around her arm until the fury of her eyes dies away. When he releases her, the pipe falls to the ground.

"Everyone, clear out," Miranda says. The Cerberus crew begins to gather and filter out of the shuttle bay area. Miranda watches over them. The amount of damage control she'll have to do is staggering. Jacob is limping but when she tries to get his attention he dismisses her before moving on, no doubt trying to salvage some bit of pride. Miranda gets to the elevator, stepping inside. Garrus is putting a hand to Shepard's shoulder when the elevator doors close; she looks tired and small.

* * *

 _I am sorry that we won't get to meet in person, though I believe I can tell you what needed to be said just as easily over email. Jane is gruff. That has always been her way. She is an exceptional woman but she has never been soft. At times, she could be cruel. I know what you're up against. You do need her. As far as I am able to tell, the project was a success. You have my thanks. Please take care of her._

 _Liara_

Miranda reads the email again despite having memorized it the first time. One of her many talents that is currently proving useless. She begins to compose an email, intent on pressing for more details but discards it. She knows that Liara and Shepard had a relationship. Liara's opinion is biased. The woman she loves is alive again. Of course she'd want to believe the best.

Maybe this is the best. Miranda tries to escape her doubts. She has researched all of Shepard's vids meticulously, combed through all the Alliance records. Such behavior was never documented. She had a reputation for being merciless on the battlefield but respected among the soldiers who served under her. There were no charges of dishonorable conduct anywhere.

She goes through Kelly's notes. Mental health trauma, PTSD, antisocial personality disorder, depression. All are speculations based on Shepard's experiences, on witnessed behavior. Once again, Miranda silently curses the open-endedness of psychology, how some diagnoses are given simply because others find the charge's behavior tedious and annoying. Miranda does not believe Shepard is a sociopath but the evidence is stacked against the both of them.

Her cabin door opens and Garrus enters, shadows filling his face, making every sharp angle stand out where the light touches. His eyes settle on her and Miranda detects his wariness. She nods to the chair opposite of her but Garrus remains where he stands. He clears his throat. "Whatever you have to say to me you can say it in front of Shepard."

"If you really thought that, why come alone?" Miranda asks. His mandibles flex. He sits. Miranda doesn't have a speech prepared. She doesn't need to get Garrus Vakarian on her side. She couldn't if she wanted to. She needs to get him on Shepard's side. She needs him to help her. "I don't need to tell you how Shepard's actions have been affecting the crew and this mission. You have eyes." He makes a sound. "What do you think?" He reaches out to pick up a mug on her desk, turning it, she thinks, in an attempt to bide time. His movements are careful. He sets it back on the desk but keeps his silence. "Can you tell me? Or do you need to get Shepard's permission?"

"You want something. It's all over your face. What a pity that all that gene tailoring has so little effect on turians," he sounds pleased with himself. Miranda won't engage him in debate. She knows to be grateful for what she has. She doesn't have to tell him how it's crushed her in the past, how it has molded others' expectations of her. "I guess you never thought you'd need it." Garrus looks down at the chair and re-situates himself, planting a taloned foot on the desk.

Miranda looks at it and back at his face. "You're avoiding the question."

"I don't trust you. So yes. I am."

Miranda leans forward on the desk, knocking his foot off. It lands with a slam to the floor. She doesn't withdraw. Garrus stretches his torso forward, eyes narrowed to slits. "I don't need you to trust me. You can but that's not what I'm asking for. You look me in the eye and tell me this is the Shepard you worked with to stop Saren. Tell me that her constant screwing around, literally, figuratively, is what it's going to take to stop the Collectors. If that's the case, get out of my office and we can all continue as we have. If you can live with that, then I'll have no choice but to do the same. But we can do better. _She_ can do better."

"What do you want from me, Miranda?" he asks impatiently.

"We both know we can't continue as we have. If you don't know that, that rocket hit you harder than I thought." Miranda pulls back at the same time that he does. His mandibles twitch. He is getting antsier by the second and Miranda knows that any misstep will turn him against her entirely and could sabotage the rest of the mission. Once again, she's forced to swallow her pride. "Shepard respects you." He gazes at her, eyes predatory. "I am working around the clock to clean up her messes. Whenever we land, she starts a brawl. She isn't tending to the squad, she isn't even bothering to build our team," frustration squeezes her voice. Garrus blinks. "You stopped her in the shuttle bay. She needs your help. She isn't willing to listen to me."

"You're an outspoken advocate for a terrorist organization that dogged us years ago. We _saw_ the reprehensible experiments you were running. On your own kind. Makes the whole 'humanity first' schtick you put out there seem full of shit. She'd be crazy to trust you."

Miranda's mood darkens. No matter what she does, no matter what she says, Cerberus' reputation will continue to cause setbacks. "I can provide unlimited resources and support but none of that matters. You're right. I am the face of Cerberus. You're _not_. You're Archangel. Cleaning up the scourge of Omega."

"Cut the sales pitch, Miranda, I know who I am."

Miranda's never been one to stroke egos. She's happy to move on. "Fine. The Collectors are abducting human colonies. Maybe you don't care about that but you _must_ care about the Reapers. They're not gone. They're biding their time. And at the rate we're going we'll never be ready. Shepard listens to you. If we are to stand any chance against them we'll need her. _Help her._ Help us _all_."

Garrus stands. Miranda thinks he's smiling. "Coming to a turian for help because you think you screwed it all up and you can't control your pet project." Garrus laughs. Miranda gets to her feet, fingers flat on the desk, eyes hard as flint. She refuses to believe that he's this stupid. "This must be _killing_ you." He slaps his hands down beside hers, making the mug and the books rattle. Miranda notices how his talons scratch into the desk. "Things must be _serious_." He cocks his head to look at her. "I'll help. Not for you. If Shepard asked, I'd put a knife in your back. I owe her that much. I find you're jerking me around? She won't have to ask."

"Try it," she says through clenched teeth.

His eyes go cold, mandibles flicking two hard clicks, huffing. Then he's gone, disappearing out the door.

* * *

Commander Shepard is behind schedule. It affords Hope and the clone more time to prepare. On the other hand, the Collectors are gathering people en masse. Humanity can't afford to waste time. If this continues there won't be any 'humanity' left. She reads through the data packets she's received from the _Normandy_ , silently thanking the pioneer of quantum entanglement communications for allowing untraceable transmissions. Certainly nothing EDI would be able to pick up.

Hope smiles indulgently, wondering if The Illusive Man's pet has realized that she brought back the wrong person. Hope doesn't want Shepard to fail. She acknowledges that the clone isn't ready yet to tackle the Collectors. Commander Shepard is only a stand-in, the study, until the clone is ready to make her debut. Knowing that doesn't make her any less giddy about Miranda's failure.

She turns on the television, punching in the appropriate set of numbers for the vidcall. Three rings in and she sees a haze of white noise and a woman wrapped in inky shadows, hood masking the majority of her features except for an impish smile. "Whoever this is, I'm impressed. Now tell me who you are and how you managed to get through my firewalls to actually connect with me."

Hope reclines on the couch, smiling. "On top of the rose you've added a hood to your repertoire? How very cloak and dagger of you."

"Sasha?" Kasumi clears up the white noise and pushes the hood back from her face. Hope hasn't seen Kasumi in years but the woman hasn't aged a day, looking as young as she did the last time the two saw one another. "I'll be damned. It's really you." She ties her hair up and leans into the desk she has her computer mounted on. "It's been a while. Still up to your old tricks?"

"I don't know any other way."

The two spent some of their teenage years together, breaking and entering into the homes of the affluent. Kasumi preferred to take artworks: paintings, sculptures, renowned handwritten novels. She'd always had an appreciation for beauty, for the way a piece of art could evoke emotion, could trigger feelings and memories long forgotten and buried. Hope had been more practical, enjoying, instead, finding quick buyers, putting potential clients in a bidding war, extracting the largest possible amount of money she could from them before moving on and doing it again. The thrill was breaking in and getting away, the excitement was rendering security systems obsolete.

Kasumi could always dismantle them. Breaking through firewalls became so commonplace it became boring. When Kasumi began teaching Hope some of her tech savvy, they really had to step up their game to get their thrills. Eventually Kasumi began daring them to break into places, security systems intact. It was reckless but it was _fun_. Sometimes alarms would be triggered. Getting in would be the easy part. Getting out would be fun. They had close calls with the police but they never got caught. They would return to one of their apartments (or just break into somebody else's) and laugh, drink, party and begin to plot their next excursion.

They eventually parted ways; Kasumi choosing to build a collection of priceless artworks and focus on Keiji, who they met towards the end of their time together. No longer able to sell off the works they acquired together, they had some small argument and stopped working together. When the Illusive Man told Hope that he needed strong, creative, exceptional individuals to stop whatever force it was that was taking human colonies, Kasumi naturally came to mind.

"You were always a bit of a troublemaker. That's probably why we got along so well," Kasumi admits.

"I heard about Keiji," Hope says. Kasumi's eyes flick to the side, no doubt thinking of him, full lips thinning slightly. "I'm sorry." Kasumi nods and Hope knows that Kasumi doesn't want to get into it. Kasumi was always endlessly energetic and cheerful but more reserved about personal matters. "You've built up quite the reputation. What are you doing with yourself these days?"

"Sitting on my ass waiting for the great Commander Shepard, apparently," she says, some irritation touching her voice. So her informant is right, then. Kasumi Goto isn't on the _Normandy_ yet.

"I thought Commander Shepard was dead," Hope says dutifully.

"You'd think that. A few months ago I was made an offer I couldn't refuse. The credits on this thing alone is more than anything we ever managed to collect in all the years we worked together," Kasumi teases a finger along her lips thoughtfully. Hope makes a sound to convey that she's impressed by the sum though she knows what it is. "I honor my contracts. But do you know how much work I've had to pass up waiting for this?"

"You've never been a patient girl."

"Yeah, I get carried away," she grins, "but… it isn't about the credits. This Commander Shepard is going to help me get back Keiji's graybox. I'd do it for that alone," she puts a hand to her mouth as if to whisper, "but don't tell them that."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

She lifts her head, staring curiously. "Hey. Who's that standing behind you?"

Hope kills the vidcall and looks back. The clone is there, a bowl of cereal in hand. Hope frowns. The clone moves more and more quietly by the day. Hope imagines that she should be impressed but it can be disconcerting when she isn't expecting her. The clone crashes on the couch next to her, chewing thoughtfully on star-shaped cereal with moon marshmallows. "Who was that?" the clone asks.

"A future squad member, if all goes according to plan." She rests against the armrest of the couch, appraising her. The clone has a fondness for tanktops and hoodies, particularly the old Cerberus one Hope threw at her long ago. "Don't come out if you hear me on a vidcall." The clone shrugs. "We can't have you discovered just yet."

"If _She's_ the fake why do _I_ have to hide?"

"Because you aren't ready. And you have a face that will launch ships," Hope smiles wryly to herself, thinking how much easier things will be once they get the clone on the _Normandy_. That won't be for some time yet. Hope is careful in her plotting of time. It would not be good to rush ahead. That was another disagreement she and Kasumi often had. Hope liked to meticulously plan. Kasumi enjoyed leaving things to chance. There's a beat. "I've found a viable N7 alternative for you. It's more of a preparation for the program, just as arduous. More so, sometimes. It comes with a big price tag. I think you're worth the investment." The clone finishes the bowl of cereal, setting it down on the coffee table and watching her. "That's what I've been working on for the past few weeks. Getting your application in order, ironing out all the little details of your life."

"Little details…?" The clone takes the datapad that Hope passes to her. She scrolls through the data for several minutes, brow knit thoughtfully before her jaw clenches. "None of this is true." Panic begins to flare along her features and Hope, for the life of her, can't figure out why. She thrusts the datapad back at her and Hope takes it without thinking.

"We can't put down Commander Shepard's information. And you don't have nearly enough to fill out thirty-two years worth."

"Is that how old I am?"

Hope hesitates. "Yes."

"Why don't I remember anything? Why isn't it already written somewhere? Why do we have to make up everything about me as if I don't exist?"

The clone's anxiety grows with every question she asks, her eyes mercilessly boring into Hope's, demanding answers that Hope isn't ready to give, that the clone isn't ready to hear. Hope has always found comfort in the noncommittal nature of aliases. How bothersome that the clone seeks so strongly to hold on to an identity, reacts to it like some child with a safety blanket. "This is only temporary. You won't go without an identity for too much longer." It's true, in a sense. When she assumes the role of Jane Shepard, she won't go without an identity ever again.

The clone narrows her eyes. "You're talking about _Her,_ aren't you?"

"Don't act like a child," Hope says. The clone's hazel eyes are near-green. She no longer bristles with biotic power but Hope feels the hair of her arms stand on end with the energy the clone gives off. Hope throws the datapad at her and stands. "Feel free to pick out a name for yourself. That's the last part of your application." The clone gets to her feet, datapad in hand, staring at it as if it were some holy relic. "You don't have to do it right away. Sometimes it takes hours to choose just the right name. Whatever you pick, don't get attached. It won't be who you are. Not really."

She walks away, hoping to read more of the data that is constantly streaming in. If only she had a network like the Shadow Broker's. Everything would be infinitely easier. It might, in some ways, be dull but she can't argue that it'd be efficient. She's nearly to the bedroom door when she's spun around and pressed hard against the wall. Hope feels the particular texture of this wall press against her back, the small ridges of the paint, the tiny, pointed edges.

The clone holds her there and Hope doesn't try to get loose, knowing she won't go free unless the clone lets her. The clone presses her forearm to Hope's chest, pinning her down. Hope looks steadily into her eyes as the clone's chest rises and falls, as her eyes take on a hint of blue. "Well then." Hope says. "What are you going to do?"

The clone is remarkably strong. The pressure of the clone's arm against her chest is like some crushing vise. The clone presses her mouth to Hope's, a clumsy attempt at reproducing what she has no doubt seen on her many vids. Though the clone has forcefully held her down, her kiss is gentle.

Hope lets it happen without reciprocating until the clone pulls back, looking pitiful and sad. Hope cocks her head, chin tilted up and looks at her. The clone's expression changes from sadness to anger. "Kiss me back," the clone says. Her voice shifts from soft, to hard and authoritative, so fluidly it always takes Hope aback. Hope says nothing. The clone presses their faces together, her arm more tightly against her than ever. "Open your mouth and kiss me back." It's a demand.

When the clone kisses her again, Hope closes her eyes and parts her lips. The clone kisses her deep, her tongue hot and electric against her own. It tastes like sugar. The marshmallows, Hope thinks absently. Eventually the arm pinning Hope falls away. Hope is left with a near-paralyzing heat threading like a current through her. Their mouths separate and the clone looks at her intently. "I am not a child."

She leaves her there, returning to the datapad on the couch. Hope, trying to even her breathing, retires to the bedroom to catch up on her reading.


	6. Grace

It isn't the blare of the cab alarm that wakes Hope, or even the garish neon-colored lights blinking frenetically out the safe house window. The clone is on the bed beside her, fingers trailing feather-lightly along her face, rousing her to wake. Hope's never been a deep sleeper and these days she has more reason than ever to be cautious and on the alert.

The clone has not kissed her again, nor has Hope thought to press their lips together. The clone, however, has moved back into the bedroom, often complaining of uncomfortable couches and the importance of being well-rested. Hope calls bullshit but not to the clone's face. The clone has been relatively well-behaved despite the mounting hunger in her eyes when she looks at Hope.

Hope can see the advantages of having the clone in her thrall. What she sees more clearly, however, are how the clone's affections could impede their progress and make them both soft. Hope can further admit, when she's alone and aching for more adult company, how convenient it would be to have a woman who was all in one: the savior of humanity, protégé, lover, equal. These thoughts are brief and discarded as whimsies. It doesn't work like that, nor can it for a very long time, if ever.

This is the first time the clone has dared lay hand on her since the kiss. The action confused and shook Hope. It was a sign of aggression, of dominance. That was the arm. Her mouth was something else. It was what marks the clone as soft and weak, no matter how Hope may have taken any other and maneuvered them to the wall, to claim their mouth again.

The clone's eyes are half-closed, a small smile pulling her lips despite the thoughtful expression on her face. Hope straightens her back on the bed, shifting slightly to face her. The clone responds by easing Hope's hair back behind her ear. She scoots closer, fingers tickling along Hope's hand, lips hovering over Hope's own.

"Today's the big day," Hope says, her voice foggy with sleep.

It has the intended effect, to dislodge them both from the charged moment, and replace it with the slow dawn of their good news. Today _is_ the big day. They will take a shuttle to the Elite training academy, operated by CAT6. Former N trainees, including some N7s, work as instructors. Like the N7 program, it is an honor and a privilege to be accepted. Unlike the N7 program, the missions are real from the get-go and students are sent out to the front lines. Instructors are harsh and unsympathetic. Most students leave and are ridiculed for it. Some die. Hope has made it clear that the clone is to complete her training and do so in exemplary fashion.

"I'll have a name. I'll make my name." The clone smiles though Hope frowns. The clone had taken an inordinate amount of time choosing her name. As much as Hope would like for her 'alias' surname to be 'Shepard,' she knows it can't be risked. The two women are identical.

"It's not your real name," Hope reminds her gently. The clone, unfortunately, is more receptive to softly cloaked words than hard edges of anger.

"Say it. Say my name." It isn't a demand. It's a request. Hope smiles wryly, thinking of her naiveté. She pushes the chocolate colored strands from the clone's face and breathes her name. It isn't a sign of intimacy. Hope doesn't want to declare it too surely. The clone smiles, her touch whispering along Hope's skin again, leaving a trail of fire.

Hope's brow furrows further at her body's betrayal. She puts a hand to the clone's chest. "Let's get ready." The clone stares at her before happily leaving the bed and starting to gather her things.

The shuttle circles the black sky, stars bright and pulsing. The air is howling, making the shuttle rock back and forth. A storm's moving in. There's nowhere to land. The clone slips into the parachute, anticipating when the shuttle will move violently and adjusting, maintaining her balance.

When she's finished making adjustments to the belts and harness, she grabs onto an overhead handle and looks at Hope, seemingly lost. Hope smiles inwardly. It wasn't so long ago that she was excited, now she can see nerves are starting to take over.

Hope takes a breath and begins to double-check the parachute, testing the buckles, seeing if everything is cinched tightly enough. She almost spills out the open door but the clone quickly wraps an arm around her waist to steady her. Hope swears inwardly but allows it, quickly finishing her inspection before dropping her hands from the harness.

The clone doesn't release her. "What will you do?" She averts her eyes. "I won't see you for months."

"I'll keep myself occupied, as you will. It won't seem as if any time has passed at all."

"I don't see why I have to do this."

"You've been looking forward to this for weeks," Hope points out. The clone frowns, still refusing to face her. Hope notices the looks the agitated pilot keeps giving them. They're wasting fuel circling like this while the clone decides to suddenly have doubts. Hope touches the clone's face delicately but still she doesn't look at her. "Grace." That's the trick. The clone turns to her, eyes baring her emotions. So many of them. So many Achilles' Heels. "It doesn't matter what you have to do down there. All that matters is that you come out on top and you come back to me safe. All right?"

Grace nods. Hope presses her lips to the clone's and kisses her hot and carnal. Incentive. The clone is taken aback. She learns quickly and gingerly brings her hands to Hope's face. The action releases Hope from her hold and the kiss continues feverishly until Hope feels the fire forming in her belly.

She shoves Grace out of the shuttle before it can spread. She closes her eyes and takes a breath, trying to take the chill of the night into her. When she looks out the shuttle door, she can only see black and the tops of trees. Hopefully the clone won't be speared on one of them. Hopefully she'll return stronger and colder than ever.

She grips the shuttle door handle and slams the door shut.

* * *

The first ninety-six hours are spent in a four-by-four cell with concrete floors and walls. There's a toilet but there's no bed. Bright fluorescent lights glare down at her. She isn't allowed to sleep. Soldiers, or wardens, the clone can't decide, enter the cell in blue and grey camouflaged fatigues, prodding her with the end of their rifles every time she starts to drift off. She wonders why Hope put her here. Why she has to be here. Everything moves in slow motion, frame-by-frame, in an array of bright colors.

She rests against the wall, eyes raw and stinging.

She loses track of time. All she has are the walls and the mud and dirt that caked to her arms and legs when she landed. One moment she closes her eyes. The next there's a glass of water, reminding her that her throat is dry as the desert. Two uniformed guards stand at the door.

"Drink up, Morgan," they say, their voices thin behind their helmets. "Your throat must be hurting by now."

She reaches for the glass.

"All of this can be over. One sip and you're out of the program."

She hesitates.

"Most of the guys who came in with you are gone." He whistles. It sounds strange and eerie. "No shame in throwing in the towel." One of the soldiers picks up the glass and moves it closer to her. She pulls back, wrapping her arms around her knees.

"Ah, she's tough," the other says with a laugh. "Looks kinda like Shepard Jr., doesn't she?"

The other soldier laughs derisively. "Fuck Shepard. Bitch slugged me once for putting a hand on a recruit's ass."

The clone perks to attention but they exit, slamming the door behind them. They leave the glass of water.

Time begins to lose meaning. Her mouth continues to dry, her saliva becoming thick and mucous-like. She swallows desperately and stares at the glass of water. A headache that feels like the crack of a rifle hilt on her skull emerges. She starts to hear things. She makes herself focus.

She toys with the memory of Hope's lips, full and soft against her own. But even that isn't enough to distract her, to keep her awake, to fight the pain that has seized her stomach. She's so hungry she retches but there's nothing to throw up, leaving her throat coated with acid.

The guards always come the instant she turns. Now, beside the glass of water, a plate of food. Looks like dog food, smells like heaven. She thinks, idly, that if they asked her to kill for a plate of food she would do it.

They open the small window to her door. "Eat up if you want out of the program, Morgan. Hardly any of you recruits left now." His expressionless helmet bores into her. She crawls closer and hears Hope, hears the anger and disappointment in her voice if she takes a drink, if she eats. What does she want her to do? Does she want her to die in here? She feels like she's dying. She knows that she's dying. Her face feels jagged. She picks up the plate and throws it against the door. She does the same with the glass, to fight temptation. Glass litters the floor. Brown meat slides in chunks against the wall and onto the floor.

She paces. She watches the door whir open an unidentifiable amount of time later. Another plate of food. Another glass of water. She shakes. How long will they keep her in here? Is it a joke? Is this a trick? Did Hope send her here to kill her? Why not do it herself? Why do it at all?

Another prodding guard. "Keep those eyes open, Morgan." They shake her shoulders, keeping her awake. She wonders if she's supposed to kill them. Is she supposed to kill them? She could kill them, take one of their uniforms, sneak out. Eat. She could eat.

 _You can't go anywhere. You're not finished._ She isn't sure when Hope walks in. She does. Straddles her. Kisses her. Puts her hands beneath her shirt, ripping it off. She wants her. More than that fucking glass of water. More than food. More than air.

She blinks at the sound of water. Lifts her face. Warmth. A soldier is relieving himself at her feet. He notices her noticing, faces her. Looks at her. The clone doesn't know how but she knows he's watching. He shifts, standing straighter, flaccid penis in hand, pissing on her chest and arms. "Thought you needed a shower, Shepard Jr.," he says.

The door shuts with a clank. The clone hears laughter and turns. There's no one else. She walks on hands and knees, over the piss to the water and food. She stays on hands and knees, as if in prayer.

 _Go ahead, Grace. It's all right._

It sounds just like her. It feels just like her. Nibbling on her ear. But Hope would never tell her to alleviate the pain. Hope would never just let it _stop_. Hope likes to hurt her.

No, that isn't true.

Hope wants her to be strong. She doesn't feel strong. She buckles to the floor, her lips cracking and bleeding. Her mouth is like sandpaper. And her cell smells like piss. She smells like piss. She thinks, idly, about killing all of them. She could do it. She could do it.

"Keep those eyes open, Morgan!" She hears a guard shout and bang repeatedly against the door until her ears ring. It's only when the turian and batarian rush in, pinning her to the wall that she screams, swinging her fists wildly, slamming them into the walls, punching, punching until her arms are sore, until her knuckles are bleeding, until they're juice at her feet, smears on the wall.

Every visual is a snapshot. She gasps and heaves, throat tasting of blood. They're not there. They're not there. She goes to the door, bangs against it, starts to shout that they let her out. Bites the words back somehow. They leave another plate of food and water.

She's rocking back and forth, head in her hands when she hears the grinding of gears. The door to the cell rolls smoothly open and clanks to a final position. "Morgan, Grace!" The soldier bellows. Grace looks up at him. He wears a helmet, the blue lights making his eyes luminescent blue orbs. He flings a duffle bag at her. "Congratulations, maggot. Time to run laps." She stares at him. Her legs feel numb. "Are you _deaf_?" His voice is hollow and far away. "On your feet!"

She stands, feeling like air, legs rubbery. The duffle bag weighs over one hundred pounds. She's lightheaded but straps it on over her shoulders. "Move it!" he shouts, crowding behind her, pushing her and though his face is covered, she can nearly feel his spittle along her face and neck. She wonders if she's hallucinating.

* * *

The following weeks are grueling. They train in the scalding heat, in rain that falls so hard it feels like needles piercing the skin. They go twenty-two, sometimes twenty-three hours a day, sleeping only an hour or two before doing it all over again.

Day by day their numbers fall. Those who remain have shadows under their eyes and any shine or spark that was once to be had fades to something cold and metallic. People collapse in the middle of runs, their legs giving out from beneath them, faces buried in the mud, their packs holding them down. Sometimes they suffocate that way. Sometimes their hearts just give out.

They aren't allowed to linger. "Move it, Morgan! Move, move, move!" shouted into her ears until they ring. She moves because Hope would want her to move. Hope would want her to forget the person in the muck. She doesn't always agree with her. Grace doesn't think a person should be reduced to the sum of their parts; to just a body.

The instructors are unforgiving. They hang the candidates upside down by their legs, blindfold and spin, push, punch, kick and give them a gun, give them their mark. Disoriented and hurting, they have one second to take the shot. If they miss, they're out. If they don't shoot, they're out. If they kill someone, they're out. They lose a few that way, bullets gone errant that strike into skulls and spines. Some leave on stretchers, others in bodybags. Goodbyes are forbidden.

Grace gets through. _By the skin of your teeth,_ Volkova hisses at her. Grace ignores her. Volkova doesn't like anyone.

* * *

They have ten minutes for chow time, each of the candidates ripping eagerly into the MREs that are provided. Grace uses the plastic fork to touch the crumbling, too-dry rice. A bite verifies that it has no taste. She tears open a few salt and pepper packets but they do little to help.

Floyd takes a seat beside her, uninvited. He's a senior candidate, tall with wide shoulders and bigger arms than she's ever seen. He's got a dark head of hair and a trim beard. His eyes are grey. His smiles are easygoing. She sees candidates watch him during chow time. Other candidates avoid his gaze. They say he keeps trophies from missions.

Grace ignores him, finding battle a far more familiar language than casual conversation. Fortunately there's been little time for talk. Chow time is ten minutes. It always feels like an eternity. It's easier when Hope talks at her. How is Hope? Where is Hope?

"I've been watching you," Floyd says. Grace doesn't remember his first name. It might be Jack or Jeff. Jason? "You're not bad for a woman." He pauses. Is it supposed to be a compliment? "They weren't kidding about the resemblance." Grace buries the fork in the rice and has another bite to discourage conversation. He touches her hair and she slaps his hand away. He lifts his arms in surrender. "Settle down," he smiles.

She means to tell him not to touch her. Instead, she stands, taking her tray with her, dumping it and exiting the mess. She regrets it later, when her stomach clenches in hunger.

* * *

They sleep in what look like cells but are really just concrete holes in the wall with rolling mats on the floor. Grace wakes one night to squashed groans and follows the sound. It turns out to be nothing. Volkova has a gagged, shirtless candidate cuffed to a pipe in the wall, his arms crudely tied with plastic zip ties. The naked light bulb swings overhead, flickering like a firefly.

There's a collection of knives on the floor, some of the blades red and wet. Grace has heard Volkova has a thing for them. Volkova's eyes burn, entranced as she draws the blade slowly along his stomach. His skin flushes red with blood. He strains against his restraints, pulling at the pipe, another groan ripping through him before he convulses.

Grace's shadow swings from side to side on the wall. It's only then that Volkova notices her. "Training," she says to Grace in her thick, Russian accent. Volkova is a senior candidate. It does seem like a quirk of the program.

Shrugging, she leaves them. She closes her eyes and tries to ignore the man's groans. She grasps at the small time left for her to sleep and catches it for a few minutes. She wakes with weight on her chest, a hand to her forehead, a knife to her neck. Volkova's eyes are pale and blue, like a husk's. "If you think to spy on me again," she says quietly, "I will rip your fucking throat open."

Grace doesn't move. She wonders if she misinterpreted the situation earlier. Her heart batters against her chest. "All right," she finally says. It's what Hope has liked for her to say. It has a disarming finality to it, the white flag of conversations. Volkova narrows her eyes to slits, her eyes every bit as sharp as her knives. She's pulled her weight off the clone when Grace springs, grabbing fierce hold of the knife arm and slamming Volkova face first into the wall. She hears a crunch. Volkova makes a pained sound, more beautiful than any sonata. Her knife clatters to the floor. Grace brings her lips to Volkova's ear. "And if you come near me with your little toys again? I'll turn you into a _fucking_ knife holder. All right?"

Volkova scampers out like a dog with its tail between its legs. Grace shakes but she doesn't sleep. She'd expected this sort of behavior from aliens, not humans. It's disconcerting.

They're placed into squads of four. Grace is the junior candidate. Floyd and Volkova are the team leads. Volkova's face, usually the color of lilies is bruised and colorful, nose twisted where it wasn't before. She glares at her but doesn't talk to her unless she has to. Grace doesn't acknowledge that anything happened.

The other candidate is one that Grace hasn't met before: Santos. Tall, blond and with a dash of stubble, he has the look of an actor in vids. He sits next to her on the bucket seat of the shuttle and she braces herself for what is sure to be another arduous exercise in socializing. "You don't talk much," he says. Grace plants her back firmly against the seat and draws a slow breath. "What's your story, Shepard Jr.?" Her jaw tenses and he smiles good-naturedly. "Hey, it's not an insult."

Floyd stands some feet away, hanging onto an overhead handle. He's a tower of menacing muscle. The other candidates whisper that he's on the juice, that most of the candidates are. Shreds of jealousy and worry creep through their voices. His scores are intimidating. Floyd wears a helmet with black lights where his eyes should be. Lumps of coal. Grace feels his eyes on her and shifts. "I have a name." It's temporary and she'll have to give it up. The thought rips at her, making her feel hollow.

Santos laughs. "You can bet your ass I'd take 'Shepard' if I could. Heard she's back. Alliance gave her up for dead." Grace shrugs in response, her stomach churning. "They give up on everyone before their time," bitterness colors his words but the shuttle rocks to a stop and they're all on their feet.

Volkova and Santos rush out. Grace can feel the icy air settle against her hard suit. Floyd crushes Grace's arm before she can step out. "You're on me," he says. Grace tries to yank her arm away but he holds on tight.

* * *

They storm freighters, appearing from nowhere and commandeering air ships. They raid slaver bases—kill a lot of batarians that way. They lose themselves in sweltering jungles, finding pockets of smuggled arms and ammunition, worth a fortune to some. Turians are hard to kill but Floyd doesn't ever stop. He plants his knee on their necks, taking a knife from his back and hacking away at their mandibles while they scream. Grace is torn. Floyd whistles cheerily.

It's mission after mission, planet after planet. Some are icy, others so dry their noses start bleeding once they step out of the shuttle. They dive through oceans, parachute onto military bases. They rearrange power balances. Blow up a lot of shit.

Sometimes they board discarded freighters in zero gravity. One time they find geth. The squad looks to Grace as if she's supposed to have answers. She takes lead, more out of instinct than any know how. They get out alive and Grace is happy to share something in common with Shepard, despite her shadow hanging over her head like the Grim Reaper.

They can't stop long.

They have orders. Some follow better than others. Volkova still prefers her knives. She's small and quick and can sneak up on a man, bleeding him dry before he realizes he's been cut.

Santos prefers to choke them out, his captive's legs kicking at the air, Santos' face going as red as his prey's before they go still and he lays them carefully to the ground. Grace thinks that's nicer. Polite and clean.

They move through corridors, hallways, deserts, fortresses, in teams of two. All Floyd needs is a hit to the throat to crush a windpipe. He likes that. He's surprisingly quiet for a large man, taking a person's head in his hands and twisting until there's a snap and they crumple like a doll.

Grace doesn't have an M.O. Biotics aren't usually an option. Too loud and flashy. She carries a new model weapon, stolen from the Alliance, a whisper quiet M-11 Suppressor pistol that she gently presses to the back of an enemy combatant's head. An homage to Hope, maybe. Grace feels remorse that there isn't a higher power she believes in, to send them with prayers on their way. Maybe she only feels guilty. She was told to do whatever it takes. She will do whatever it takes.

They're mercenaries. They're pirates. No matter their alignment, it requires the spilling of blood. Sometimes they're heroes. Sometimes they're terrorists. It makes Grace feel a little bit like Commander Shepard. Maybe that was the whole point anyway.

* * *

Sleep is impossible to find. Unauthorized outgoing communications are blocked. Grace has been away from Hope almost as long as she was with her. Every base they hit becomes a tomb, bodies stinking up the air until they wait for their next objective.

Grace walks the blood-splattered hallways, listening to the hollow echoes of her steps. A sound puts her instantly on alert and she narrows her eyes, thinking that it's impossible they missed someone. Thorough. They must be thorough. She withdraws the sidearm and presses to the wall, rounding the corner. A tangle of bodies. No, two.

Volkova. Santos. She's on top. His arms are wrapped around her back as she pivots her hips with purpose. She notices that Volkova's normally tied up hair is long, loose, flaxen in the light, before she realizes what it is that she's walked in on. Her mouth is arid. There's something primitive about the act. Suddenly she's assaulted by facts, triggered, as they usually are, by visual or auditory cues.

She's entranced, against her better nature, incapable of looking away from the two, carved as if from marble, infinitely softer. When Santos sees her, Grace flushes with hot shame, her body electric as a live wire. He doesn't turn his eyes, nor does he cease his activity. Grace wonders if this is what friends do, what they share, why neither of them can look away, why Santos becomes more passionate still. It confuses her and she turns sharply, running into a wall. No, not a wall.

Floyd, who takes her and pins her to the actual wall. There's a rod in the front of his pants, large, menacing, pressing to the inside of her thigh through their pants. He slams her wrists above her head, gripping her painfully. Panic shoots into her like a knife but she buries it and meets his eyes. They're like glass. "Touch it," he says.

Grace almost asks what 'it' is and is somewhat relieved she doesn't, having had enough embarrassing social faux pas'. Cold settles over her like frost, burrowing into her like worms. Her heart batters against her chest, her pulse so loud she can barely hear herself. "No." He squeezes her wrists harder. They'll be black in the morning, she realizes. Another attempt to pull them away fails. She breathes in slowly through her mouth, making herself calm. "Take it out," she says calmly.

He smiles. Handsome. He keeps her arms pinned with one hand and undoes his belt, zipper with the other. He takes it out. Santos has vid-star looks, Floyd has porn-vid appendages. Some part of her registers that he's amply sized, nothing to be ashamed about. He holds it out to her, like a diploma. Some rite of passage. She smiles a little at that and he smiles further, pleased, a measure of relief playing on his features.

"My hands," she reminds him. He lets her go, his legs shoulder width apart. She brings her hand to it experimentally. She's seen videos but it isn't as if she's ever done this. No, she must have, she corrects herself, she doesn't remember. That's what Hope would say. His penis throbs in her hand and she gives it a few strokes. He groans before taking her hand, roughly spitting on it and bringing it back down. Somehow that's more offensive than anything.

A few more strokes, a few soft swear words and then he calls her Shepard. Not Morgan, not Grace, not Shepard Jr. It has its advantages. She can pretend she's someone else. She reminds herself to apologize to Hope for crushing her to a wall. It had felt natural and good but it was out of line. She hadn't known that then but she knows it now. Things must be consensual. She understands that Floyd hasn't given her a choice.

She strokes one more time and then twists her hand savagely. He screams. "You crazy—!" Another twist and he's on his knees, useless, moaning painfully. "Jesus, fuck—," incomprehensible language. Tears spring to his eyes.

She brings her lips to his ear. "If you come near me again outside of a mission I'm going to take your dick as a trophy and feed it to the varren in the next shit-hole planet we land on."

She's still gripping him when Volkova and Santos rush out in a panic, guns at the ready.

* * *

The Mako is impossible to drive. It's a shitty, heavy clunker that manages to be flimsy at the same time. Santos sits beside her in the front, gripping the handlebar above him for dear life. He'd tried apologizing for the incident with Volkova but Grace stopped him, not knowing what there was to apologize about.

They grind over an icy mountain. The vehicle flips on its side. "Goddamn it, Shepard!" Volkova shouts at her from the back seat as Floyd slams into her.

"It's _Morgan_ ," Grace won't apologize when none of the bastards bother to use her name. "You try driving this piece of shit." She pushes a few buttons, sweating as she maneuvers it back onto its wheels. They continue the slow push up the mountain, the vehicle rolling onto its roof several times due to its flimsy mechanics. Floyd and Volkova become more vocal by the moment. Santos gives her strained, encouraging smiles.

"You're going to fucking kill us before we get to the distress beacon," Floyd shouts at her.

Grace squares her shoulders and ignores him, managing to get them down to the other side of the mountain. The land is vast and flat, an unending sea of hard ice that glitters blindingly in the pale sun. Santos pulls a pair of sunglasses from his suit and puts them on, grinning at her. Grace smiles without knowing it. "Maybe you should drive," she tells him.

"Enough chatter, let's get moving," Floyd complains. He's been a dick since Grace nearly snapped his off. The Mako whines its way forward, kicking up chunks of ice as it forges forward. They drive for what seems like forever before Floyd signals they stop.

They slip into their helmets and clamber out. Grace's skin numbs immediately from the cold. "Stay frosty," Santos jokes. Floyd looks at him for a long time before the group advances. There's a crashed ship encased in ice. A distress beacon, as tall as they are, spins, emitting a sonic beep. Grace frowns at it and the skeletal remains of the ship, sadness tugging at her.

"This was a waste of time," Volkova touches a hand to the distress signal and sighs. "Why would they send us here?" she demands to Floyd. They get into an argument.

Grace takes in the barren, arctic land, her breath fogging against her helmet. They only have so much oxygen and the chill is sinking to her bones. There's a tremor beneath her feet. It isn't imagined and it's growing stronger by the moment. She looks around but sees nothing. Volkova and Floyd are still sniping at each other. The ice is coming apart ahead of her, in waves, moving faster by the moment.

"Watch your six!" Grace warns them, but no sooner are the words out of her mouth that the ground erupts in a shower of dirt and ice, flinging them back. They're on their feet just as quickly, not immediately aware of what it is that has happened. The sunlight has been taken, their unit drenched in shadows.

Floyd's air supply has been cut, it must have happened in the fall or due to some chunk of rock—the back of his helmet blinks red. He has no reservation about stealing Santos' helmet, leaving the candidate panicked and fighting for air. The helmet is the least of their worries. Grace looks up she sees what she feared—a thresher maw.

Grace is ready to shout when a piercing shriek pierces the frigid skies and further disorients them. She rips the helmet from her head and throws it at Santos before yelling at the paralyzed, gaping group to run. They're sitting ducks in the open space. The thresher maw dives into the ground, nearly knocking them on their asses again. They keep their balance, somehow, and go.

They sprint, fumbling for the Mako. Grace's limbs and lungs burn. The air is thin. She has never been so terrified. It isn't the thresher maw, though that doesn't help. It's the cold wrapping around her like a blanket, the numbness seizing her, the crippling sensation of the air being ripped from her lungs. A memory that isn't.

"Ready weapons!" She orders and sees them lift their assault rifles and grenades. Volkova has her sniper rifle. It's hard to breathe and Grace verges dangerously close to hyperventilating. The thresher maw springs from the ground again, mouth large enough to bite into the Mako. It rears its head back and Grace knows it's getting ready to spew venom. Santos is loosing a stream of obscenities as his trigger finger keeps squeezing, bullets tearing through the air at the creature. When the thresher maw projectile vomits the toxin, there's nowhere to hide. Grace doesn't need to see their faces to know the squad is terrified; they'd have to be out of their minds not to be.

She waits for the horrendous burn of the acid but it doesn't hit.

Grace's nose bursts a fountain of blood, freezing almost instantly to her lips and mouth. A searing headache like a cleaver going into her skull nearly blinds her. It's only after that she realizes she's biotically lifted the Mako to block the attack. She isn't used to the exertion and she feels it all over her body, squeezing, making her muscles burn and strain. Her knees and shoulders buckle as if she had physically lifted the vehicle.

Someone says that they're going to die. Grace isn't sure who it was but she drops the Mako to the icy terrain at the words, unable to maintain the effort. "Keep it together! This isn't over yet!" Head pounding, she withdraws the M-77 Paladin clamped to her back, pointing it at the thresher maw, three images moving into one before separating again. She centers her aim, ducking behind the crashed Mako and hurling a warp field in the maw's direction before detonating it a moment later in a loud boom.

The dry blood on her face has the consistency of toothpaste. She spits a glob of blood to the side, taking careful shots. The reassuring sound of bullets rip through the skies, drawing screeches from the monster. She is grateful to her squad. She is grateful for Hope's tutelage. She understands why now. It makes moving through the dizzying pain bearable. It hurt Grace before. But maybe it's Hope's way of caring about her.

It doesn't matter. Maybe Hope doesn't care about her. Maybe Hope doesn't have to care about her. If she's strong, if she can survive, she can become unstoppable, untouchable, unkillable. Her feelings won't matter then.

* * *

Bekenstein: where the rich go to piss their money away. It is a playground for millionaires and billionaires, glittering and beautiful on the surface with an underside as seedy as Omega. It's humanity's version of Illium without all the fine print.

There's something contemptuous and artificial about the planet. Its shine is similar to all the quality products it exports to the Citadel: glinting from the distance, duller up close. It has all the dazzle of a particularly effective ad campaign, some vid of a fantasy life where you can buy anything you desire as long as you have the creds to back it up. Now drawn, like moths to a flame, the damn asari have invaded the planet.

Parties and galas are the norm. Hope moves like a butterfly through them, meeting new contacts, determining who has worth and who doesn't. Unlike the citizens of Bekenstein, she does not make her determination by their wealth—though Bekenstein has few of those who don't have any.

Donovan Hock is an obvious asset but Hope avoids him and his parties. She tells herself it isn't out of some allegiance to Kasumi or Keiji. They were friends but business is business after all. She isn't in the market for weapons or art. That's all there is to it.

It's been nearly six months since the clone went to the academy. In that time Hope has monitored Commander Shepard's progress. The quarian has been secured, so has the asari justicar, Zaeed Massani and at long last, Kasumi.

Shepard is beginning to settle—or at least, she isn't beating the hell out of her own squad. Has Miranda gotten control of her pet at last? Hope tries not to worry. It is a weight off her shoulders to think that Shepard won't simply let the Collectors come in and take all humans. But that isn't what the reports have been. Yes, Shepard has completed the team but she still isn't moving as quickly as she could be.

It isn't Hope's only focus. There are more pressing matters on her mind. Cerberus is on the move and they're gunning for her. The tracker imbedded in the clone's arm not only tracks her location but her vital signs as well. The first ninety-six hours at the academy were worrisome. Hope isn't exactly sure what she was made to endure though she suspects some sort of psychological test was put into place. After that she proceeded as expected.

It has been strange being apart from her. She wonders if the clone is excelling as she ought to. Training at the academy differs by individual. Some leave, some die, others graduate and are offered a place in the CAT6 squad.

Hope won't believe that she failed. She won't believe that the clone wouldn't return. The clone's sentimental attachment is useful in that way. Has the academy given her some sense of independence? Does she believe she doesn't need her anymore? Or has Cerberus discovered her and she's on the run? Hope frowns at the thought. They can't have discovered her. If they had they would be no match for her. Hope tells herself that.

Her own mortality is a different matter altogether. In between trying to assess Shepard's situation and whatever the clone's may be, she has been moving from planet to planet, safe house to safe house, eluding Cerberus. They aren't sending the Blue Suns anymore, those she's dealt with. Now she's beginning to see a side of Cerberus she never spent much time with before: their heavily fortified militia.

She hacks into the surveillance feeds of whatever planet she lands on when it's an option. Bekenstein is almost as heavily monitored as Illium and provides a mine of data. Hope has seen only glimpses. The Illusive Man isn't a fool; his soldiers undergo massive psychological conditioning to make them more than just brute force. They are fearless and tactically superior to Alliance soldiers. The last thing she needs is to engage a handful of troopers only to end up flanked by engineers and guardians.

She cannot risk herself. Yes, self-preservation moves her as it does anyone else. But she knows that without her, the clone would lose her way, might think to live some mediocre life and not give what she ought to for humanity, for the galaxy.

Hope is careful. She moves in the night, slipping around dark corners and alleys, keeping her breathing even, her pistol in hand. But luck doesn't last forever and the hiss of a smoke grenade puts her instantly on alert. She turns on her heel and runs down the dark alley, bricks to either side of her, some homage to the old earthen cities of the past. There are more troopers ahead and they turn to her, quickly shouting out their sighted target. Hope's heart jumps to her throat and she lifts the pistol, discharging two quick rounds. It hits them square in the forehead, blowing their brains out before she turns. Centurions to the front, coming out of the smoke like tanks.

She reaches to her side, knowing her pistol is useless against those shields, and flicks a grenade at them. They shout, beginning to back away and Hope spots a fire escape several feet above her. She leaps, taking hold of the slippery rungs on the ladder, still wet and cold with rain and pulling herself up.

The blast of the grenade makes her ears ring. She doesn't hear the metal clanking of her steps going up the escape. She's a fish in a goddamned barrel out here and she knows it. She makes her legs go faster, muscles burning as she takes the flights of stairs up, two at a time, yanking herself to the top, into the cold and windy night.

Several rooftops over she sees a helicopter sweeping its search light over alleys, over roofs, more Cerberus troopers rappelling down. _Shit, shit, shit._ Gathering a lungful of air she finds some cover behind several exhaust pipes and tries to steel herself, calm herself. The Cerberus troops dropping to ground level helps and eventually the helicopter moves on, shining its spotlight elsewhere.

It's time to move. Her ears are still ringing but sound is gradually returning. Cool sweat is slicked to her face and neck and she wipes at it, boots pounding along the roofs, heading in the opposite direction of the Cerberus assault team. She's nearly at the edge of another building when a shadow swoops down in front of her.

Hope quickly jumps back to create some distance. He's taller than she remembered. Oh, he's tricky. He smoked her out quite nicely. "The Illusive Man sent you?" She smiles, even as Kai Leng withdraws the sword from his back. Her hearing has come back enough to hear the metal of the blade slide against the sheath. "I'm flattered."

Kai Leng returns her smile. He is a handsome, cruel man with eyes that are as dark as the material he wears, the Cerberus logo is prominently and proudly centered on his chest. The Illusive Man's most trusted agent. So. Her presence was missed after all. "Don't be. I'm not here for you."

"Oh, good. I was almost worried." Hope is grateful her voice is steady. Kai Leng is the Illusive Man's top agent and assassin for good reason. He does good work. "You'll be moving out of my way then." She bravely takes a step forward and then another. He watches her, sword disarmingly at his side but Hope knows he can cut her in half in an instant if he chooses to. "I'm surprised Cerberus still suits your purposes. They love aliens as much as the Alliance these days."

"I'm not here to talk shop. Where's the clone?"

"Clone? I don't know what you mean."

He backhands her so viciously she stumbles several steps back. Any feeling in the right side of her face is gone. She tastes blood. She doesn't move closer again. This time Kai Leng advances calmly. "I'm not going to play this game with you, Hope. We know you took her. I'm going to kill you," he tells her matter-of-factly, "but how quickly and how painfully, is up to you. A gift for your service to our organization."

Hope surveys the area. The night is spread out like a blanket, the moon pale and fat, a breeze kicking in and a sea of buildings in every direction. Lots of escape routes, really but Cerberus is everywhere and this is Kai Leng. "Look, I may have left Cerberus but I have no idea—"

This time he strikes her with his open palm. Pain flares across her face, her recently returned hearing going off again, making it feel as if her ear is stuffed with cotton. "Tell me where she is," he menaces. His eyebrows have narrowed, and this time he brandishes his sword.

"No," she lifts the gun. "You can't have her." She fires off three quick shots but the bastard is fast, dodging and weaving, sprinting at her. None of the shots land. He swings the ninjato blade but fortunately she's fast too. She dodges the first two swings and has to dive to the right to escape the third.

She hears a small, unrecognizable sound and grimly realizes that her shields are gone, whittled down to nothing somehow. He has new implants that she isn't familiar with. He rushes at her again, kicking viciously. She blocks it, but not without the brutal hit making her arms throb painfully. She's lucky they didn't break.

They exchange blows in a sadistic dance, but it's a fight she can't win. Her blows are glancing, while each kick and punch that Leng lands wreck her, robbing her of strength. Her legs weaken until she falls to her knees. He ruthlessly kicks her in the head and she's sent sprawling to the ground. He follows her and kicks her side repeatedly. Ribs snap. She really should just tell him where the clone is.

He wraps a savage hand around her throat and yanks her to her feet. "Don't be stupid, Hope. Tell me what I want to know." His teeth are red. She's proud of herself. She blinks at the blood that spills fast from her brow into her eye. She can't breathe. She can't speak. "Tell me!" he screams, spit flying into her face.

Hope smiles, despite the excruciating pain. "I'll be the first black mark on your record. Tell the Illusive Man better luck next time." Rage marks Kai Leng's features. She takes a grim satisfaction in it, mentally issuing the command sequence as he buries the ninjato blade into her side. It fills her like fire. What if she dies here? What if the clone doesn't see things through till the end? The questions, the agony are cut short as everything shuts down, heart, lungs, brain function. She goes limp.

* * *

Kai Leng lets her body slide away from the blade and to the ground. Blood blooms around her. He kneels at her side, putting an ear over her heart, his fingers on her pulse, covering her nose with his fingers. Nothing. No response. The bitch is dead. He slams a fist beside her head and stands, returning to the shuttle to inform the Illusive Man of their setback.


	7. Desire

Shepard brought her to Illium, along with Jack. She takes the opportunity whenever she can. Miranda suspects Shepard's flaunting her command, bringing her close to those that are threatening Oriana, only to force her to deal with Jack's surly company for hours at a time instead.

They recruited the justicar. Miranda watched Shepard's eyes light and then darken, condescending and lascivious as Samara knelt before her and gave her oath. _By the Code, I will serve you, Shepard. Your choices are my choices. Your morals are my morals. Your wishes are my code._

What makes a woman forswear her family and belongings to wander known space, righting wrongs, doling out justice according to the unforgiving Code of the Justicar? Furthermore, what makes such a severe woman vow to suspend the Code in service of someone like Shepard? Miranda recalls the icy feeling she felt along her spine as Shepard's lips pulled into a barely restrained smile at the asari's oath.

In any case, things are proceeding. Not as optimally as Miranda would prefer, but there _is_ progress. Her chat with Garrus seems to have had some effect. Better yet, the recruitment of the quarian appears to have soothed Shepard's spirits further.

If only they could get Liara T'Soni onboard, Shepard may become putty in her hands. Miranda maintains her distance. There are cameras everywhere, after all. EDI and Kelly Chambers keep her filled in on any developments. Tali'Zorah is a nuisance. She keeps disabling not only cameras but audio feeds as well. Miranda wonders if all aliens are so pigheaded; she feels as if she's been thrown a lot of unruly children to mother. Not that she can say she has much in the way of maternal instincts. She frowns, thinking of the most recent email she received from Dr. Banner Genway. It's fitting, she supposes. She didn't have a mother herself. How could she possibly be one?

Irrelevant. She compartmentalizes the information and turns her attention to her computer monitor and the steady stream of emails Shepard keeps composing before deleting them. Thirteen drafts in all. Miranda skims them.

 _Dear Liara_ —

 _Liara_

 _Hey_

 _Dr. T'soni_

 _Dr. Liara T'soni_

 _How are you? How are things? I miss you._

 _You haven't responded to any of my emails. Too busy tracking down the Shadow Broker to send a response? It would take two fucking minutes._

 _Fuck you. Fuck **you,** Liara_.

 _I wish you'd consider coming back to the Normandy. It isn't the same without you._

 _I love you. I need you. Jesus Christ, I wonder if I'm even the same anymore. I look into the mirror and see a freak. Help me feel normal again, please._

 _Did you ever love me?_

 _None of these other women can fuck like you do._ _Do you even give a shit?_

 _Who the fuck is this friend of yours you need to get back? Were you fucking around on me when I was dead?_

Each draft is discarded, rejected. Miranda feels a small pang of pity for the woman. She shouldn't have bought into all the hype about Commander Shepard. All she feels when she looks at her is disappointment. She wonders if the mythological God felt much the same way when man ultimately rebelled, teeth sinking into an apple, foolishly thinking they could touch His mind, be His equal, live without guidance.

Shepard needs a great deal of guidance. Miranda decides to take advantage of Shepard's insecurities and forwards her an email about the reconstructive surgery along with the necessary data. The next email she sends includes information about the location of the Shadow Broker. Truthfully she doesn't like to see Shepard's face falling apart at the seams. It makes Miranda's work look sloppy. She didn't invest two years of her life for Shepard to look sloppy, or act sloppy.

Miranda watches Shepard sit at her desk in the cabin, slumped in her chair, sitting up to look at the email she has received. A video feed disappears from the corner of her monitor. Miranda silently curses the blighted quarian.

* * *

When Shepard died, so did some piece of Tali. It was a difficult thing. Who could she share that pain with? The _Normandy_ crew despaired. They all saw that Collector ship blow up the _Normandy_ like it was nothing. They didn't see Shepard. They only knew that she didn't get into the emergency pod with Joker. Some part of Tali desperately wanted to believe that she'd made it.

Some part of her had always foolishly loved Shepard. Shepard who was cutting and mean but was always kind to her. The day she finally accepted that she'd gone, she secluded herself from the rest of the Neema (as best as she could on such a tight ship) and cried so much her eyes stung for hours. She cried until she no longer could. She wondered how Liara could bear it when she was falling apart.

Then on Freedom's Progress, there Shepard was again. And then again on Haestrom, saving the day. She looked different. She still does. But it's her. It's really her. It has to be. Shepard remembers things Tali told her, she remembers about the data. If Tali can't trust memories, what can she trust?

Garrus sidles up next to her on the bar, sliding a shot glass to her. She smiles, taking it between her digits. It's nice to have him around again. He has always been an intense man, somehow passionate and cool in one. He's no one Tali would ever want to get on the wrong side of. He and Shepard were always close but these days he sticks closer to her than ever. Tali wonders if he has a crush too. "Another one?" she asks. "How much is Cerberus paying you?"

"Not one credit," he says. The Dark Star Lounge music pulses and she scoots closer to hear him better. "You know I'm not here for them. This is all courtesy of our fearless hero." They both look to Shepard who's at the bar, ignoring the turian and flirting with an asari. Tali wonders if she could have had a shot with her if she'd been born an asari, or anything that wasn't a quarian. Oy. Shepard makes her crazy in the head. "Bottoms up," he clinks their shot glasses together and make a face. "Oh, sorry. I guess it isn't that easy for you," he reaches past her and takes a straw, dunking it in her shot glass.

"I didn't realize you were such a gentleman," she says. He barks out laughter before clearing his throat and the two quickly down their shots. Shepard looks to be in the middle of some story to the asari who is laughing. Shepard's skin is coming open. It's strange to see her like that, with those strange red eyes. She looks part machine and it unsettles her. Tali thinks her own distrust of the geth is what fuels the disquieting feelings. She hasn't seen Shepard behave out of character. "You know, you're _scarier_ than you used to be."

"Me? Scary? I'm hurt."

"I never saw you as a bad boy before. Are you trying to take after Shepard?"

"Shepard's a boy now? Oh. I thought I was bad at human biology but usually I can tell their sexes apart. I guess they all do look alike," he says. She sees a whisper of his teeth and Tali smacks his arm. He's a bigger smart ass than he was before, too. "Still have a case of hero worship?"

Tali sputters. "I—I don't know what you mean." She bites her lip. Garrus passes the shot glass back and forth between his fingers. Her face floods with heat. Tali silently congratulates him on scoring a point in a game he doesn't even know is being played. "I dismantled a few more cameras on the _Normandy_. I would have done it anyway, but knowing that I have Shepard's blessing makes it all the more satisfying." She sits up straighter, trying to get the attention of the bartender who pretends she isn't there. "I don't trust any of those people." There's a pause. "Not any of Cerberus anyway. Especially Miranda."

Garrus makes a noise and slams his shot glass down in front of the human bartender. "The lady would like a drink. You'll find our credits spend as well as anyone else's." The human grouses but pours them new drinks, huffing and sighing the entire time.

She takes a sip of the new drink and is glad when it doesn't kill her. After Shepard's experience with the batarian on Omega, Tali has been extra cautious. It turns out that having been a crewmember on the _Normandy_ when they stopped Sovereign carries little weight. And even if they do know her, Tali isn't one to brag about her exploits. All quarians look alike to humans anyway. "You're so forceful."

"Only when it's necessary."

"Aha. I can't remember the last time I saw you exercise restraint," Tali says. Garrus grins. "I'm so happy she's back, Garrus." Garrus trails his finger along the rim of his glass. "I wish it wasn't with Cerberus but…" She doesn't know what it is that she's saying, nor did she mean to begin waxing romantic about Shepard. If she were, she doesn't know that Garrus would be the one to talk to about it. Maybe calibrations or polishing weapons would be better topics of conversation.

"Tali… about those video feeds…" Garrus starts hesitantly.

Shepard is there suddenly, throwing her arms around the two, pulling them tight. "How are my favorite squaddies?" she asks. "Getting good and liquored up? We don't get much shore leave; let's enjoy it while we can." Tali tries not to become flustered at the contact, already forgetting whatever Garrus was trying to talk to her about. "Has Garrus been behaving himself?"

Tali blinks. "What?" She doesn't have an opportunity to explore the conversation further, Shepard's dragging her away from the stool and the bar, out to the dance floor. Tali stands awkwardly, unsure of the meaning behind the action before Shepard starts dancing. Tali looks around.

"Hey, come on, I'm not that bad of a dance partner, am I?"

Tali smiles. Surprisingly, inconceivably, even, Shepard looks to have improved. Tali listens to the music and starts to sway to it. While the Flotilla loves music and engages in dancing often, she hasn't had the spirit to join them since Shepard died. Now that she's back, it's different. There's a reason to dance again. Tali looks over at Garrus and beckons him to come closer but he shakes his head. When she glances back, Shepard stands even closer, has taken a careful hold of her hips. Tali is sure she short circuits, all thought momentarily shutting down. "What's the matter, Shepard? Did the asari bartender turn you down?" Shepard laughs. "I'm not the easy prey you think I am, you know."

"Aren't you?" Shepard smiles and in the flashing lights, she almost looks normal again, like that old Shepard who only had a scar on her upper lip, cutting into her eyebrow, like the old Shepard who could send her heart into a tailspin. "I'm really glad you're back, Tali." Shepard pulls her close. "I need someone like you at my side." She whispers the words, as much as anyone can whisper them at a nightclub with music blaring.

"Oh," she says.

Then Garrus is there, asking to cut in, surprising the both of them. Tali thinks she imagines the glare on Shepard's face. Shepard stalks away from the dance floor and Garrus thrusts a fist in the air, moving his legs for all of two seconds before walking off too. Tali sighs. Well. So much for that.

* * *

Shepard doesn't like the cabin. She doesn't like the quiet. The electronic equipment thrums softly with the beat of a hum, ringing in her ears. She convinces herself that playing any music might hide any telltale signs of Miranda and Cerberus' spying, of the cameras. It's nice to get away. She likes the rare moments of solitude. She stares at Liara's picture and lets it wreck her.

It was beautiful, in a morbid way, being so close to the stars, seeing fire fill up the skies, even as her heart broke. She would never see Liara again. She thought that. She thought of her as her heart came to a stop. How did Liara do it? How did she come to completely possess her in such a short period of time?

Shepard sits at the terminal. No new messages. None from her. She takes a breath and massages her forehead. She has to see Anderson. She can't put it off forever. No doubt he's heard the rumors. No doubt Kaidan has run off to snitch. How can she tell him she's fine, that she came back all right, when she's working for Cerberus? When she looks like some goddamned Frankenstein?

Thank God for Tali. Thank God for Garrus. They're loyal. They're here. They make her feel safe. Anger at Liara festers inside of her. No word. No nothing. She runs her fingers through her hair and takes a breath. She releases it. She makes it into a mantra and attempts to send Liara another message. Maybe she should get drunk first. Won't matter to her worth a damn what she sends then.

She takes another long breath, holding it until it becomes painful and she sees spots. Exhales slowly. It's a reminder that she's alive.

 _Dear Liara,_

 _I know you're busy. Guess we have that in common. You know, dying's the only real break I've had from this 'saving the world' bullshit. The world doesn't mean a damned thing to me without you in it. When we got rid of Saren I thought we'd have time. We didn't get it. Not what we deserved._

 _I know how it seems. I know how I look. It's going to be fixed. All of this is temporary. You and me—we're endgame. That's what I thought. Will you reconsider joining me on this mission? I could sure use you on my side. You can't tell me finding whoever this friend of yours is trumps stopping the Collectors. We helped each other out before. We can again._

 _Is there someone else?_ She deletes the line.

 _Can you please send me some kind of response? You're fucking killing me, T'Soni._

 _x. Jane_

She sends the email and regrets it immediately. How the fuck does an asari barely out of her teenage years reduce her to a pining schoolgirl? She hates showing her hand without so much as a bluff at the ready. She doesn't mention the Shadow Broker. Not yet. She wants to see how Liara responds to her earnest appeal. She needs to hold on to the gambit for an instance of desperation.

* * *

The krogan doesn't have a smell. He's shiny. He hasn't earned anything. He was bred in a goddamn tank. His knowledge was downloaded. Shepard despises him. Far as she's concerned, he and Miranda are cut from the same cloth: genetically engineered by maniacs with gifts they don't deserve.

Miranda's a robot. Always emotionless, always controlling, always a raging bitch. Grunt is a beast, wild, unpredictable and violent. Both created in labs. Shepard doesn't trust something that isn't born; Shepard doesn't trust science trumping God.

Something about it is immoral. Something about them makes her skin crawl. She touches her arm experimentally, scratching it gingerly over the hoodie she wears. Kasumi arches an eyebrow delicately. Kasumi is fun and always up for a heist. Shepard still doesn't trust her, though. She can't. No one in their right mind would willingly work for Cerberus, no matter how many credits are at stake.

"I'm kind of sorry this isn't strip poker," Kasumi says, throwing a few chips down. "I'd have you down to your undies, Shep."

Shepard's glad it isn't strip poker. Not that she wouldn't mind having a look at Kasumi (if she ever got a decent hand) but she isn't ready to bare it all. Not the way she would have before anyway, with some impish glow in her eye. Now the glow is all too real. She can see it reflected on surfaces, on her hands when she wakes in the night. "Keep dreaming, Kasumi."

"In case you both have forgotten, strip poker could kill me," Tali says, adjusting herself on the chair she sits on. Shepard smiles over at her.

"Cry me a river, kid," Zaeed rearranges his cards. He came into the game boasting about his skills and has gotten the shittiest deals all night. Shepard suspects Kasumi's deck has an edge they haven't picked up on. She and Tali are killing it. "Don't know how the hell you're doing it. Can't even read the cards off your helmet. Guess you do have one hell of a poker face after all."

"That's offensive," Tali says but Shepard isn't sure that she means it. She's been humming for the majority of the evening.

Shepard likes Zaeed. There's something about grizzled old men who are open about their sociopathic tendencies that tends to reassure her. That and the fact that he's killed over fifty Cerberus agents puts him securely into the camp of people she _can_ trust on the ship. "Do quarians wear panties to get into a twist, Tali?"

"Shepard!" Tali shows her cards and the table collectively groans. Tali collects the mountain of chips, pulling them towards her. Of all the group playing, Tali is the least likely to collect actual credits. Out of all the crew playing, she's the one Shepard is most likely to pay up to.

"You really do like to tease her," Kasumi observes, getting Tali to lean across the table to whisper something.

Zaeed takes a swig off the unlabeled brand of alcohol he's drinking. It has a yellow, greenish hue to it making it look like battery acid. Whatever it is, it leaves him immensely satisfied, his eyes looking sharper than ever. Even the one that's implanted settles on her too keenly. Shepard stands, rising from the mess hall table to search through the kitchen cabinets.

She finds a mug and sets it aside, looking for some instant coffee. To her consternation, Miranda is soon there. Like her, she pulls out a mug. Unlike her, she immediately finds the tea bag that she's looking for and starts to boil water in a kettle. Shepard abandons her search, pulling herself up to the counter to take a seat. Shepard watches her unwaveringly. Miranda crosses her arms gently, looking at her, past her. "Playing card games. I suppose that's a step up from beating your squad to a pulp." Her voice is remarkably light. Shepard finds it all the more grating.

Tali glances back at them and Shepard frowns. It isn't that she regrets what she did because she doesn't. She wanted to find out what Jacob was made of and she did: nothing. He's Cerberus. Doesn't matter anyway. If Tali asked, Shepard would tell her. Not that she thinks Tali would care about her beating up Cerberus agents. Didn't she offer to help her blow up the ship? Tali's solidly on her side. But she might misunderstand the situation. Miranda strikes her as the sort to enjoy creating misunderstandings. "Didn't quite get to the 'pulp' stage. You can thank Garrus for that one."

Miranda's finger taps lightly against her own arm but her face reveals nothing. She turns to pour boiling water into her mug. "Cerberus has humanity's best interests and yours in mind. Jacob especially. You should consider apologizing to him," she suggests.

"No." Shepard waits for Miranda to tense but she doesn't, as if she's unsurprised by her dissent. "I stopped at him. I didn't continue on to you. Makes us even, in my book." She swings her legs gently. Miranda drops a tea bag into the mug. She stares at her. Shepard looks back. Miranda's supposed to be perfect. She doesn't know what her insides look like, what kind of rot lurks beneath the surface of a Cerberus agent, but the outside is pristine. Gleaming hair, full lips, and a body that's unreal. Isn't real, really. Staring into her eyes is like stepping into frigid winter. "How's your sister?" she asks lightly. "Escaped Daddy's clutches yet?"

Miranda's eyes thaw. They don't flare. It's enough to make Shepard sit up straighter. She waits for a reprimand. Miranda likes to show off. Shepard braces for it. Miranda picks up her mug of tea. Shepard wonders if she's going to throw the boiling water at her. "That topic is off limits." She steps closer, hands settling at Shepard's sides. She looks at the table of players and her voice is soft. "If you bring her up in that way again, your little friends won't be able to stop me." Shepard smiles. Finally. A reaction. Miranda picks up her tea. "Enjoy the game," she tells the group, retreating to her office.

Shepard wishes she'd asked her where the instant coffee was.

"Did it suddenly get cold in here?" Kasumi asks.

* * *

The quarian reminds Shepard so much of Tali that she immediately feels a kinship to the woman, some obligation to rescue her from the moronic volus and C-Sec guard that act like their shit doesn't stink. They've raised one hell of a storm over a goddamn credit chit.

Shepard may not be able to see Lia'Vael's face but if Tali taught her anything, it's how to be mindful of body language. The girl is jittery and nervous. Shepard doesn't doubt for a second that she's telling the truth. Tali, beside her, is becoming more anxious by the second. And here she'd just been hoping to have a relaxing stroll through the Citadel, see the old sights. Avoid Captain Anderson.

"Don't you have better things to do?" Shepard asks Officer Tammert. He feeds her a line. Shepard never liked bored C-Sec officers, itching for some petty crime to take their minds off how insignificant their jobs are. Aside from Garrus and Bailey she can't say there are C-Sec officers worth a damn. _Real_ soldiers go into the Alliance. "I'll find that damn chit," she says to the group, stalking off. The quarian, Lia'Vael, looks after them worriedly.

Tali falls into step beside Shepard. "I can't believe what they're making that poor girl go through," she seethes. Shepard glances at her, a smile touching her lips. Two years, laid out on a goddamn medical table. Two years for so much to change, for Tali to grow up. Shepard hears her voice now, strong, rigid and is proud of her, happy to work alongside of her. "You know, I thought the Citadel might change after what happened with Saren. I _thought_ my role in all of this would mean something—"

"It did. It _does_." They walk to the Sirta Foundation shop but Shepard can tell Tali's still fuming. "I hate it as much as you do, Tali, but there are a _lot_ of ignorant people out there. All we can do is prove them wrong. Far as I'm concerned, you've gotten one hell of a head start in changing the reputation of quarians everywhere."

Tali looks at her and then turns her head away. She's embarrassed. This time Shepard hides her smile and focuses her attention on the distracted asari behind the counter. She remembers Kor'tun, but he didn't leave behind a credit chit. Tali puts her hands on her hips, standing on her tiptoes before rolling her neck, massaging. "Shepard, what are we going to do? I _know_ she didn't take his stupid chit. These volus' are so obsessed with credits that they'll try to take them from someone else." Shepard smirks gently. "He's going to try to get her thrown in jail. I can't even imagine what would happen to a quarian in lockup."

"We'll take care of it. Let's keep looking," Shepard says. They go to the next shop, then the next, questioning the customer service representatives and searching the counters and checking the corners. Finally, a salarian clerk turns the abandoned chit over to them. Shepard grins, flipping it in the air before catching it. "Worrying that pretty little face for nothing," Shepard says. Tali clasps her hands together as if to clap before clearing her throat. Shepard grips her shoulder reassuringly. They march back to the group and Shepard chucks the chit at Kor-tun. "Payday, asshole." The volus fumbles for it, breathing heavily as it rolls away from him. He chases after the chit, turning in a few circles before finally claiming it. Suit or no, Shepard knows when she's being glared at. "Found this at Saronis Applications. Hard to believe a volus would ever be so forgetful where money's concerned."

The volus takes a few deep breaths. "I find that offensive, earth clan," he wheezes. "How do I know you're not lying? Your quarian rat could have been conspiring with this one to rob me blind. I'm lucky they only got a chit. You know how they are—"

"Are you serious?" Tali demands, bristling, stepping forward with her hands balled into fists. Shepard's glad Tali doesn't have her shotgun. "Despite what you think, we aren't thieves! We honor community and loyalty, not credits. If we're forced to steal, it's because ignorant people like you refuse to let us earn a living!"

"All right, all right," the C-Sec officer stands between them and jabs a finger into Tali's chest. "You're going to have to—"

Shepard takes the C-Sec officer's wrist in her hand and twists, bending his arm behind his back and shoving him face down to the floor. "Don't you ever touch a member of my crew again," she menaces. She hears him yowl but she doesn't let up on her grip. She hears C-Sec officers running over but she ignores them. "Go ahead and try to run me up to Bailey. Anderson and the Council will tell you to kiss my ass. Spectres don't answer to petty C-Sec guards." She shoves him to the ground. The officers arrive, guns drawn. Shepard glowers. "This officer attacked a member of my crew. Now are you going to handle this or do I have to go straight to the Council myself?"

The crowd disperses, the C-Sec guards dragging away the swearing, apoplectic Tammert. Shepard kneels in front of Kor'tun and smacks his chest once and then again. "And you. Keep harassing innocent quarians and I'll come back personally to pop a hole in your suit. Hear you guys don't hold up too well under pressure." She takes the credit chit he's holding in his tiny hands and shoves him away. "Get going."

Kor'tun does, swearing under his breath, threatening to talk to his embassy about this outrageous behavior. Shepard looks at Lia'Vael. "Wow," she says. "I saw that playing out a lot of ways. That wasn't one of them," she touches her helmet. "You really didn't have to do all that. But—thanks. It means a lot that a human would step in for me. Especially Commander Shepard."

Shepard smiles. "What can I say? I have a soft spot for quarians." She cocks her head to Tali. "You can thank the company I keep." Lia'Vael moves on her way with another word of thanks. "Did I go too far?" she asks Tali.

"You're asking me?" Shepard can hear the beam in her smile. "Well, I can't say that I mind listening to you shout. And it's not like I could ever hold you back."

Tali's voice is slow and throaty. Shepard wonders what might have happened if she hadn't fallen so deeply in love with Liara. Even thinking of her makes her heart ache. She wonders if Garrus has a thing for Tali. She wonders if she went too far at the Dark Star Lounge. Tali's sweet and her curves are enough to spur Shepard's imagination into overdrive. She never thought of her that way before. Is she bored? Does she miss Liara? Or has Tali simply grown up? Shepard laughs softly, wrapping an arm around Tali's shoulders. "Let's get going. I promised you some delicious paste, didn't I?" Her fingers graze along Tali's back before moving on her way.

* * *

' _Your morals are my morals. Your wishes are my code.' That's what you said. Now open your mouth and kiss me back._

The meld was incredible. Visceral. Every piece of her soared, every inch of her burning brighter than the _Normandy_ on that fateful day. Samara is a matriarch. Shepard was Liara's first lover. Samara's have been countless. The experience shows. Even if a part of Shepard is left shaking and cold.

Shepard throws up into the toilet again, hacking, sweating. She uses the sink for leverage and pulls herself up to her feet, red eyes burning in the mirror. She splashes water on her face several times over, letting the water become scalding but not ceasing the action.

She swishes the scorching water in her mouth and spits out several more times, wanting to wipe and purify the acidity from her tongue, mingling there with the taste of Samara. There was a part of Samara that was happy to let go. That was glad to be compelled to, to be given an excuse. She's sure of it. Their morals are the same. Nothing wrong happened.

Shepard heaves for breath and slumps to the floor, head in her hands. Why the fuck hasn't Liara gotten back to her? Doesn't she understand that she's driving her crazy with her absence? With her indifference? She never asked to come back. Why is it always up to her? Nobody realizes the toll it takes. Do they care?

She clutches at the wall and stands. Her eyes are shadowed. She stares into the mirror again and squares her shoulders, wipes the anguish away. She returns to the observation deck. Samara is sitting on the floor, meditating. Shepard finds spots on her exposed skin where she has bruised from grips, kisses and bites. The woman's body is hard and lean, incredibly strong, malleable and flexible.

Shepard collapses beside her, remembering how Samara cried out. Four hundred some years without a lover would have anyone aching for release. Shepard sniffs and crosses her legs, trying to steady her breath. She is empty now that the heightened pleasure that consumed her is gone. Samara leads her through a couple of breathing exercises.

They help. Shepard closes her eyes and feels Samara's eyes on her. The burning is different now than before. It's in her eyes, it's in the skin cracking alongside her ribs, it's in the pit of her stomach and the palms of her hands where her nails bury. Shepard waits for the spark that will burn uncontrollably, the one that will swallow her.

"You are restless," Samara tells her evenly. Shepard looks at her. Samara looks the same as she usually does. Shepard thinks idly that worse things happen. She bites her tongue. "Be at peace, Shepard. I am. However, as soon as this mission is completed and I am released from my oath, you must know that I will kill you. The Code does not allow an injustice to go unpunished. It is a matter of honor. And it will be… personal for me. I pity you."

Shepard closes her eyes. She takes a deep breath and tries to let the calm fill her but it doesn't come.


	8. Closer

Grace grits her teeth as she carefully settles the shuttle to a landing beside the giant cornfield in New Canton. She doesn't like the landings; it's too close to crashing. Seeing dropped ships makes her uneasy.

Floyd has been standing over her shoulder for the duration of the drop, still bitching about how she handles a Mako, threatening to gut her if she crashes the shuttle. Grace prefers the takeoff. The sound of the thrusters boosting before the shuttle sails into the air. It's different when she's the pilot; she doesn't particularly like the role but the academy makes it a requirement.

The landing is a little rockier than she would like but not terrible. She isn't like Santos who can ease the shuttle down like a lover. Floyd makes a face, aggravated that he can't complain too much. Volkova rushes to fill in the silence. _Ah, with all the grace of a krogan._ Grace smiles faintly, exiting with them into the sweltering day.

The sun is up, bright in a clear, cloudless sky. They have another few hours of light yet. Grace removes her helmet, a small breeze rushing in to flick her hair around. Despite her travels and missions, she hasn't spent too much time on a planet like New Canton. She kneels, threading her fingers over the grass, surprised at how it cuts.

Santos smiles. "Reminds me of home."

"It's too hot here," Volkova complains. "Let's do what we have to do and get going." She lifts her face, her nose wrinkling in the air. "It smells like cow shit."

"Do you ever stop complaining?" Floyd wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "And you, are you a cow?" Grace realizes he's looking at her and stands. What is it about her that makes people constantly refer to her that way? "Stop wasting time; you act like you've never seen grass before." Before she can say anything he pushes a few buttons on his omni-tool. "You know, you think just _once_ they'd send us to some asari world to pick up a package." Grace frowns gently. "Another routine mission, another shit hole."

Grace smiles. "Now who's complaining?" Santos and Volkova's lips twitch but they manage to keep their expressions neutral. "So, what do we have?"

Floyd glowers. "Like I said, just a pickup job. From Cerberus." Volkova and Santos swear at the name. Cerberus. The human survivalist group. Classified as a terrorist organization by the Alliance and many alien species. _Don't buy into what they say_ Hope told her once when Grace tried to talk about it _they act like only aliens are allowed to be proud of their race._ "Reaper tech? Whatever the hell that is."

"Reapers?" Grace asks. Sounds familiar. Nothing she can place. Just an ominous, cold and inky feeling that settles over her. "What are they?"

"Bullshit rumors," Santos says. "Ships? Machine ships?"

"They say a Reaper attacked the Citadel," Volkova sniffs as if irritated at having deigned to respond to any question Grace has asked. That's become the nature of their relationship. Scorn and indifference. Grace isn't sure if it's a friendship. She's never had those, unless Hope counts, which she doesn't think does. This is her first foray and she doesn't know whether she's doing any of it right. "Sovereign?"

Floyd laughs. "You'll believe anything, won't you?" He gets a scowl from Volkova in return. "Jesus, it's a good thing you're good at killing." He exhales in amusement and pulls up a map on the omni-tool. "I don't care what Cerberus thinks it is, we're getting paid to pick it up. Let's get moving."

They move on. There appears to be some sort of festival or fair going on in the farming community. Grace excitedly spots some real cows in the distance but stifles the happy feeling, maintaining a sober expression. Twangy music plays and children run past her, engaged in a game of tag. There's a Ferris wheel further along. The aroma of delicious foods wafts through the air and they all grudgingly wander over to the booths to grab a quick bite. Grace gets a corndog, which she ends up finding disgusting. Santos appeases her by sharing his elephant ear. She doesn't understand why food is named after animals it isn't made from.

Licking their fingers, smiling at those who seem intent on staring at them and Grace in particular, they wind their way through the crowds and arrive at a small collection of buildings, far different from the rest of the wooden structures that dot the community. Floyd stands in front of the door. "Santos, you're on."

Santos has a talent for hacking. He pulls a few devices from his pockets, attaching it to the card reader and toying with the omni-tool. The rest of the squad blocks the view. They hear a crack of thunder and then another. Grace turns her head up to the sky that is quickly blackening, flashes of lightning bursting in the clouds.

"Rain on the day of the fair. Never fucking fails," Floyd says.

"Ah, they're not going to let a little rain stop them," Santos claps his hands and stands. "We're good." The door slides open and they step inside to a much different place than they were expecting. Everything is cold, glinting steel. And blissfully air-conditioned. Volkova smiles for the first time in days. Everyone readies their weapons, despite the lack of personnel. Computers and monitors litter tables and walls, datapads scattered. The building is impossibly long.

They move further inside and spot a few bodies, dressed in black and white uniforms, an orange crest on their lapels. Their lifeless bodies are twisted, dried blood sticking to their faces. All of them look to have been shot in the head. Some hits are cleaner than others.

On the far end of the wall, scrawled in blood: IT'S IN MY HEAD.

Santos whistles. "What the fuck happened here?"

"You act like you've never seen a body before," Volkova says. There is a luminescent, pulsing object beneath a glass case. It's about twelve inches high and ten inches wide at the bottom. It curves up like an inverted fang. "This must be the artifact. Such a little thing." She pauses to look away from it when thunder rolls so loudly it nearly drowns out her words, shaking the glass around the object. "Nobody reported a storm."

"It's fair day," Floyd reminds her.

"What happened here?" Grace asks, looking around at the bodies. She turns her attention to the bloody mess on the wall. IT'S IN MY HEAD. What is? What does it mean? She looks at the artifact, silver with a tinge of purple to it. She reaches out to touch it but pulls her hand back. "Who killed these people?"

"Who cares?" Floyd lifts the glass and picks up the object, uttering a gasp. The squad looks at him questioningly. "It's cold." He tells them. Grace arches an eyebrow. "Real fucking cold."

"Let's get another elephant ear," Santos says. That's when they hear the screaming.

* * *

Lightning slices through the sky like long, knobby fingers. The heat of before is gone, replaced by a violent wind and a massive dark cloud. Grace spots a ship in the sky. She waits for the familiar recognition to come to her in the way that it does, that moment of déjà vu, but it never does.

All she hears are the screams. Everyone is running, shrieking. She's never heard screams like this before. A black swarm moves through the crowds, freezing people midstep, as if having pressed a pause button. There are creatures that she doesn't recognize, creatures she can't put a name to, insectoid, bipedal, tall as a human. Flying. Shots ring out.

"Dios fucking mio," Santos says, his eyes wide, taking unsteady breaths. Grace thought that fighting and killing a thresher maw would be the most excitement they'd be getting. She never anticipated this. Judging by the unit's reaction, she's guessing they never did either.

Floyd is pale and sweaty. "This isn't part of the mission. Back to the shuttle!" He takes out his sidearm, clutching tightly to the Reaper artifact with his other hand.

"What about these people?" Grace says. She doesn't know why she asks the question. What _about_ these people? She doesn't know them. She doesn't know what's happening. She doesn't know what force this is. It isn't part of the mission. It is irrelevant. Hope would tell her it was irrelevant. But Hope wants humanity to survive. Would she really want her to leave? Everywhere she looks people are going down. A black, seething fog of something moves over the fair.

Volkova and Santos follow, stumbling over people who have fallen to the ground, immobilized. Critters like mosquitos the size of a fist stick to the civilians. Grace's stomach drops as she sees the horror in their faces, eyes darting about desperately for a few moments before becoming transfixed.

"What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck!" Santos shouts, firing his Mattock. It catches one of the bipedal bug things in the head, but another three soon turn their attention on him, wings lifting them into the air. They fire a weapon that sounds like a chainsaw, emitting a beam of golden energy. His shields are gone in an instant and he falls to the ground in two pieces.

Grace goes numb, the air leaving her lungs, her knees losing strength. She doesn't know how she stays on her feet. Volkova screams. Santos doesn't bleed. His unblinking eyes are wide with frozen alarm.

Grey things sprint toward them, with glowing blue eyes and withered flesh that only partially covers intertwined circuity. They aren't like the bug things. Were they… human? What did this to them? Their mouths open, uttering a despondent sound somewhere between a groan and a howl. Grace flings them back with a biotic throw, then squeezes off a few rounds, exploding their heads. It gives them some breathing room, but Volkova is paralyzed. Was she stung? No. She's in shock. Grace grabs her arm and yanks her behind a tractor.

Volkova turns hysterical. "What the fuck are those things!? What the fuck is going on!?"

Grace takes her head forcefully into her hands, bringing her face close. "Get yourself together, Volkova, get yourself together!" But she hears the panic in her own voice, hears how manic she sounds. She knows that if she thinks of Santos she'll start to fall apart. How could he just die like that? How could they kill him like he was nothing? "We'll make it out of here, but if we lose it now we'll never make it to that shuttle!" Volkova manages a nod.

The buzzing sound of an insect swarm draws near and Grace throws up a barrier. The mosquito things flow around it and Volkova takes the opportunity to line up a few shots with her sniper rifle, taking out some of the bug creatures that are beginning to load colonists into pods. "What the fuck are they doing?" Volkova asks.

"Nothing good," Grace grunts. The mosquito things are swarming angrily around her barrier dome now, and some of the humanoid insects are approaching. She activates a cluster of lift grenades and tosses them out. They detonate outside the barrier, dispersing the swarm and sending the larger creatures flying. Grace drops the barrier. "Let's move!"

They run. There are so many of the creatures that Grace wonders if Floyd made it to the shuttle, if there's any possibility that she and Volkova will make it. Volkova takes out the glowing-eyed corpse creatures, while Grace flings, pulls and detonates the insect things. The merciless wind of the storm has knocked over several of the food stands. Where there were masses of people moving minutes ago, no one moves anymore.

"I'm out of clips!" Volkova tells her. Grace tosses her a shotgun and Volkova takes it, blowing out the brains of one of the alien creatures. They're still a few hundred meters from the shuttle. Grace spots another creature, massive and hunched with a bulbous upper body, lurching forward at a slow pace. It sends out a biotic wave that cascades along the ground, tearing the earth apart. Grace and Volkova are forced to separate, ducking behind whatever structures they can find remaining in the fairground. The cover offers little protection other than to conceal them from view.

Grace looks around a corner. One of the aliens lifts into the air, back arching, screaming as its flesh cracks like lava. Eyes that burn hot as coals settle on Grace. " **Assuming direct control**." The voice is deep and unrecognizable. " **Relinquish your form to us**."

"It talks!?" Volkova exclaims. She hasn't spoken this many words to Grace in weeks. It's almost funny. Almost. "What is it!?" Volkova fires off a shotgun blast uselessly, its range too limited to harm the creature. It stalks toward them, leading a group of its brethren. Grace continually knocks them back with throws, timing her Paladin shots carefully, but they keep coming.

" **You prolong the inevitable** ," the glowing creature announces. It hurls a crackling sphere of dark energy in Grace's direction. The remains of the booth she is hiding behind disintegrate, and she staggers back. The creature readies another biotic attack, but Grace launches herself forward in a biotic blur, slamming into it. Her head throbs with the effort, but she is rewarded with a biotic explosion. The creature melts away, and several others in the vicinity are instantly killed or sent flying back.

The giant, hunched creature remains. Barking its noise, it sends out another shockwave. Grace manages to dodge out of the path, but hears, with horror, Volkova's cry suddenly cut away. A glance back reveals the woman's lifeless body sprawled like a broken doll. Grace dives behind a toppled port-a-potty, ignoring the stench of spilled filth, bringing her hands to her helmet as if physically trying to contain her composure. _Keep it together. Keep it together, goddamn it!_

" **Your allies have fallen**." The same voice in another body. Grace swallows, ignoring the icy grip of death that stabs at her, the sweat that chills her deep to the bone. Another shockwave crumples the port-a-potty and rattles her bones. She lurches to her feet, sets up a singularity next to the talking creature, and begins weaving her way through the frozen civilians and debris scattered on the ground. The singularity is weak, and the talking creature soon begins moving again. " **You cannot escape your destiny, Shepard**."

Grace wants to argue with it, wants to yell at the stupid creature that her name is not Shepard, that it isn't as smart as it thinks it is. More of the bug-men are in the area now, shooting at her, whittling away her shields. She rushes the creature with another biotic charge, then finishes it by blowing its brains out with the Paladin. "Shut up!" she screams.

Not a moment later, another one forms, cracking and glowing, setting its focus on her again. " **Impressive** ," it says. " **But you cannot kill me, Shepard**."

Her breath is coming hard and fast. Maybe she can't kill it. She's tiring, and it just keeps coming. It just keeps coming back. She can't think about it. She continues to work her way toward the shuttle, finding spots of cover, working the angles, trying to stay out of the line of fire.

A husk? It's a husk (she doesn't know how she knows it) manages to flank her, jumping on her as she turns toward it. She struggles with it, punching it until it loosens its grip. She throws it hard to the ground, then stomps its head into mush. She's become exposed in the process, and a spray of enemy fire nearly depletes her shields. She sprints, ducking, rolling and dodging, pushing herself as hard as she ever has. Her lungs are on fire, her heart threatens to burst.

The shuttle is in sight, within reach, when she spots them out of the corner of her eye. A woman and a young girl hiding behind a nearby Ferris wheel. They're terrified and quivering, but miraculously unharmed. Somehow they've avoided the clouds of paralyzing bugs, but not for much longer. If she ignores them, she can get to the shuttle, her escape all but assured.

She debates what Hope would want. What Shepard would do. What her unit would decide. She runs to them. "Come on!" She grabs them and physically shoves them toward the shuttle. "Run!" The creatures have spotted her again and will be on her in moments. She races to the shuttle as the woman and her daughter frantically climb aboard.

Grace stops just short. There's a pod. She shouldn't look inside, but she does. Floyd. She bangs on the glass that separates them. His eyes stare up at her in shock, but he doesn't respond. She squeezes her fingers into whatever grooves she can find, but she can't pry it open. The creatures are shooting at her. Her shields are gone. She clenches her jaw, stomach turning, and leaves him, clambering onto the shuttle and slamming the door shut.

She jumps into the pilot's seat. The woman and girl are talking, babbling, screaming, but Grace doesn't hear any of it. Take off, take off, take off, she has to take off. She can still hear the voice of the creature talking to her, confusing her, taunting her. For all she knows the ship has some kind of artillery that will take them down but she has to try, she has to try.

"Hold on tight!" she yells. When she faces forward, she's staring at some massive bug creature that's gliding down, screeching and moving toward them on eight spindly legs like some demonic spider crab. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit...!"

The shuttle takes off. She keeps waiting for the shuttle to blow up, blasted by the repugnant aliens, but they escape. They escape. Somehow they escape.

After they're clear, her passengers introduce themselves in between thanking her profusely. Gail and Lindsay Rolston. Lindsay is eleven. They ask her name.

Grace she tells them. My name is Grace.

* * *

Grace drops the Rolstons off at Illium and returns to the academy where she reports what happened. A news vid on the attack on New Canton backs her story. They give her some medals and commendations and offer her a leadership position in CAT6, which she turns down.

She has a solitary picture of the unit, taken at Santos' insistence. They stand in a line, Santos with his sunglasses on, grinning, Floyd scowling, Volkova looking put out and Grace, with Santos' arm around her shoulder, smiling uncertainly.

She buries the image in a data cache in her omni-tool and tries not to think about it. All she has now are memories of a squad that no longer exists. She takes a shuttle back to the safe house where she left Hope but she isn't there.

Dust coats the furniture. The air is hot and unlived in. She waits but Hope doesn't come back. She searches for a note but there isn't one.

The next morning she wakes in the bed she used to share with Hope. The pillow no longer smells of her perfume water. She tries to link to Hope's omni-tool but gets no response. Though Grace has been without Hope for nearly half a year, her absence now is painful and unexpected.

She watches news reports of missing human colonies and ire sparks within her again. It flows through her as she thinks of the monsters that abducted and killed so many humans, as she thinks of the freak with the glowing eyes that called her Shepard. Did it think it knew her? Is Hope right? Is she really Shepard…? No. She's Grace.

Night comes again and Grace lies awake in bed, trying not to think of New Canton, obsessing over Hope. Has Hope abandoned her? She's spent so much time at the academy, filled her head with so many new memories that it doesn't come back to her immediately. _If I am not where you expect me to be, I may have been compromised. Seek me in Virmire._ How could she have forgotten…? The conversation happened nearly half a year ago.

Grace heads to the coordinates Hope left for her so many months ago. She's never been to Virmire though the area fills her with an unease she can't put a finger to. She arrives at an abandoned beach house, lifted on stilts. The white, sunny structure overlooks the water. Small waves lap at the shore below.

She waits for two days and still there is no Hope. Grace sits on the white couch and covers her face with her hands, feeling terribly alone. Her unit is gone. Has Hope disappeared too? Could she take it...?

The turn of the lock gets Grace to her feet. It's night now and there are no stars. Grace doesn't turn on the light. She grabs the Paladin, finger on the trigger and stalks her way to the door. Virmire is near the Terminus Systems. She knows how pirates and slavers, the lawless flee to these areas. She isn't ignorant the way she was before.

A shadow looms at the entrance. "Show yourself or I'll take a look after I've blown your brains out."

There's one unsteady step and then another. Pale moonlight streams through the window. Grace doesn't know who it is. Not right away. Then her breath catches.

It's _Her_. Grace is cautious, still in disbelief. She wraps Hope tightly in her arms, remembering the feel and scent of her, stopping suddenly when she gets a strangled, pained cry in return. Grace lets go and turns on the lights. Her heart skips a beat.

Hope's face is swollen, a multitude of colors. Her brow is gashed open, lips split. Bruises dot her neck. She wears a loose shirt and Grace, in a panic, grabs it, wanting to see how else she has been hurt, what she's hiding.

Hope stops her, fingers wrapping around Grace's wrist. Grace waits for a hard squeeze but doesn't get it. Hope exhales shakily, her free hand grabbing onto the counter, hunching over. Anger builds inside of Grace again, building like the drums of war.

"I'll kill them," Grace says through clenched teeth, trying to control her voice. "I'll kill whoever did this."

Hope releases her, placing both hands flat on the counter and trying to breathe in slowly. She clenches her jaw as a current of pain seems to run through her. "I don't want you to see me like this."

"I thought you were gone," Grace says hoarsely, happy that she didn't break, that she didn't whimper. She straightens her shoulders and wipes the emotion from her face and voice, wanting Hope to see that she came back better, stronger.

"I nearly was."

Her stomach knots. "Tell me who did this to you." Grace says. Hope stares at the counter and then gives a solitary shake of her head. Grace forces herself to cool. To calm. She does. Her eyes pulse green and that she can't erase entirely. If Hope doesn't tell her she'll find out. She'll find out and she'll kill them. She tentatively touches Hope's hair. When Hope faces her, Grace is torn between rage and a dismantling, breaking sadness. "I'll kill them," she promises softly. Hope's smile is pained, her eyes not quite meeting hers. Grace carefully wraps an arm around her shoulder and draws her close.

"I'm glad you're all right," Hope says at last, as if accepting defeat.

* * *

Hope dreams of the fight with Kai Leng. Her body remembers the force of his strikes, how her bones cracked under pressure, how the ninjato skewered her before everything went black. She awoke drenched in blood, immobilized. She thought she was paralyzed. Her breaths were rasping and wet. She thought it all went horribly wrong. There was no feeling in her face. There was only the taste of rust and iron in her mouth. Then it began to blossom in her, face and arms throbbing to the slow beat of her heart. The burning in her abdomen that followed made it impossible to make anything but agonized, strangled sounds.

The implant was a last resort, a final contingency in the event she was ever cornered and saw no other way out. It released a neuro-toxin that stopped her heart. She was dead for five minutes before the implant jolted her heart and released the antidote. There was no guarantee her heart would start again. There was no guarantee Leng wouldn't make sure the job was finished, or that he wouldn't take her body with him. It was a gamble. She doesn't believe in luck, but she understands that sometimes you have to take a chance. If it hadn't worked…

Weak and bleeding out, she fumbled for the tubes of medi-gel, terrified she wouldn't be able to grab them, apply them on time. She cursed herself for not giving up the clone. There were others. Others she could have used. Standing took too long, blood dripping off her. Each step was unsteady. Hope knew she had to find out if Grace—the clone, she reminded herself—was okay. Still lived. Was still… viable.

A light sensation along her fingers rouses her. Her knuckles are scraped and bruised, enflamed. The clone sits beside her on the bed, fingers grazing along her wrist. Hope bites the inside of her mouth as she pushes herself to a sitting. She grimaces but she doesn't cry out. It's a small improvement.

She can hear waves of water. Seagulls squawk overhead. The clone looks at her with such earnestness it hurts. Her eyes shift like the tides. Other times she's more contemplative, less times mistrustful but usually it's this. Hope hates her gentleness. It makes her worry for the both of them. They've been in Virmire for days. It's too hot. Who knows how much longer the clone has stayed. Hope isn't sure how long it took her to get to the safe house, how she got to the safe house. Everything was a dizzying vertigo-induced feat. The pain was blinding.

The clone wipes the perspiration from Hope's forehead, careful of how it glides along the bump and cuts there. Hope knows slapping her arm away isn't an option. It'd be like an ant attempting to hit a god. She can't wait for the moment that she's no longer broken. "We can't stay here any longer," Hope hates how tired her voice sounds. "We have to move. We've stayed too long."

"You're not ready," the clone says firmly, even as her hand drops back to Hope's, thumb easing gently along her skin. Hope scowls and tries to sit up further, tries to leave the bed but a spasm tears through her. She gasps. The clone rubs her back. "Don't hurt yourself." Hope closes her eyes and exhales slowly. "Whatever comes, I'll take care of it. I think I can take care of anything." Hope looks at her. Her face hurts. Everything hurts. "I should have been there when this happened."

"I'm glad you weren't," Hope says sharply. She hasn't told her about Kai Leng. She won't go into details about Cerberus. The clone's too smart now. She's too determined. She won't stop until she gets answers. Hope can't risk her finding out who she is. What she is. "I got away. That's all that matters."

The clone looks away and then picks up some bandaging. "I picked up a few things at that place you sent me to. Come on, let's change your bandages."

"I don't need it."

"Your shirt is red." She bites her lower lip. Hope stares at the sheets. There are streaks of blood on them. "I won't make you." She takes a breath. "You took care of me. Let me take care of you. The faster you get better, the faster we can move." Hope doesn't have the energy to glower. She doesn't have the reasoning to argue. Her hands come to the bottom of her shirt. She has difficulty lifting it. The clone reaches out to touch it before she hesitates. Their eyes meet briefly and somehow she knows that's all the consent she needs. The clone's careful as she pulls the shirt away. Her ribbon is nearly soaked through. "We need to get you to a hospital."

"I'll heal."

"I lost my team." There's a long pause and then she begins to unwind the ribbons around her waist. Hope bites her tongue and stifles any sound she wants to make. The clone's careful. So careful. She's told her some about her experience in the academy. She hasn't mentioned any team or squad. Maybe she thinks Hope doesn't want to hear it. Maybe she thinks it'd be considered a mark of weakness. Hope doesn't know if she'd be right. She's curious. "In New Canton. There were these… bug things." Hope frowns thoughtfully. "Big. They took everyone. Froze them. And the ones they didn't take they killed." There's a beat. The Collectors. They took another colony. What the hell has Shepard been doing? "I might have saved Floyd. I could have tried harder. I don't know if I would have been able to get away. You told me to do anything to survive."

"You're meant to be a lone wolf. You don't need anyone else." Hope doesn't miss how the clone glances at her then. It's reassuring, in a way. Frightening in others. She does not want to be the weakness in the clone's armor. "You're more important than anyone. More important than me. You did the right thing."

There's a bowl of water nearby and the clone dips a rag in it, wiping the blood from Hope's stomach. She's helped her undress for baths but this is more intimate. Hope isn't versed in acts of kindness. The language is foreign and confusing for her. "I don't agree," she says softly. The clone applies ointment and medi-gel and begins to wind the ribbon around her. She looks contemplative. She doesn't look at her. Hope touches her face and though she lifts her head she can't quite meet her eyes. Hope doesn't know how much time passes in silence. "I'm sorry if I was ever…" she thinks. "Forceful. Aggressive."

Her thoughts flash to those times. She ought to consider the battlefield. But the clone is focused and calculated then. She thinks, instead, of her mouth, 'forceful' and 'aggressive' against her own. Hope tries to forget just as quickly, not trusting how it makes her blaze. "You need to be those things."

"Not all the time." She continues wrapping the ribbon around her in silence before finishing and tying it delicately. She stands and finds her a new shirt. She looks out the window while Hope slips into it, only turning when she's finished. "I love you."

A cold chill washes over Hope, followed by fire before going chill again. She's feverish and dizzy, then disappointed, in the both of them. "No, you don't." The clone crosses her arms gently. "You don't know how." She can't afford to.

The clone stands straighter, shoulders back, chin quivering for an instant. She purses her lips as if to say something. She changes her mind and exits, carefully closing the door. Hope glowers at everything, an insatiable wrath coursing through her.

* * *

" _Do you have someone, Morgan?" Santos asked. Grace hadn't heard the question right away, fixated rudely, she was mildly aware, on the scar that cut in a vertical line down his heart like a cross. He caught her stare and smiled. "Alliance souvenir." He took a mud-colored shirt from his locker and pulled it over his head._

 _The spell was broken then. "Someone?" Grace asked._

" _Someone special." Santos waited. The question confused her. What was 'special?' Was it the same as exceptional? Was it something rare? She deliberated too hard over a question that was casually asked. He sat next to her on the bench, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, watching her. "You're a funny woman. Can kill like nobody's business but the easy questions trip you up." Grace's cheeks reddened. "I didn't mean anything by it."_

" _How do you know someone's 'special?'"_

 _Santos laughed. "You serious?" The incredulous expression fell from his face, replaced by a mildly sardonic smile. "Depends on who you ask. Maybe 'someone special' is a good lay. Maybe that's someone who you can be yourself around. There's gotta be some kind of attraction there. Someone you love. Someone you'd kill for. Die for. More or less."_

" _We do that for each other," she points out._

" _Eh, we have to. Not that I wouldn't for you, Morgan. You're all right. It's more than that. More than just obligation or sticking to the rules. Are you fucking with me?" He looked at Grace who couldn't look back at him, her eyes flitting on every surface, trying to work out the logistics of what he said. "Didn't think it was a trick question."_

" _Do you?"_

 _A long silence filled the room. Grace listened to the water drops on the sink. "I'd like to." He shook his head. "So now that I'm embarrassed," she didn't understand why he was, "is there someone like that for you? Someone that keeps you going? Someone you want to see again? Program like this is hard to do without that."_

 _Grace thought of Hope: rigid, relentless, demanding. Hope was harsh but without her methods Grace doubted she could have survived her training. She'd made her stronger though her gaze made Grace's knees weak and her heart erratic. "Yes," she said blankly, thinking of the way Hope kissed her on the shuttle, "I have someone like that."_

 _Santos mirrored her nod. "Wonder what New Canton's going to be like."_

Hours later he was dead. Grace rubs her forehead, trying not to think of him. She focuses on Virmire and the area surrounding the safe house. The light of the sun dances like diamonds on the water. The air is hot and humid but there is a breeze with a hint of coolness to it. The blue of the sky goes on forever. It looked that way in New Canton, too. There are pieces of geth scattered like seashells along the shore.

Grace doesn't like Virmire. It makes her antsy and sad. She buries her toes in the sand. Maybe she's reckless for not keeping her boots on. Grace likes to soak in experiences and this is a new one. Hope doesn't want her to feel anything at all. Doesn't think she can feel anything at all. She treats her like a doll. Grace tries to bury the anger and resentment, her feelings of inadequacy. No matter what she does it isn't enough. The gun is strapped to her side and she fingers the cool metal, trying to not get worked up. Everything she buried at the academy is returning the more she spends time with Hope.

"Commander Shepard came to Virmire just over two years ago," Hope tells her. Grace pretends she isn't there. "To stop Saren. She had a krogan with her at the time: Urdnot Wrex. He was hotheaded, as krogan tend to be. Saren had some scheme to return the krogan to their 'glory' and end the genophage. He just wanted an army for the Reapers but the krogan wouldn't let it go. Shepard's squadmate, Gunnery Chief Ashley Williams, had to gun him down."

"I don't want to talk about Shepard." She can still hear that deep voice calling to her, beckoning, hunting her. Everyone gets her mixed up with the woman but she isn't her. She isn't Jane Shepard. "Have her jump through your hoops if she's so great."

"We're going to talk about Jane Shepard as long as is necessary. Then you will replace her," Hope tells her tersely. Grace scowls. "This isn't how I planned things but it may as well be the beginning of your tour. This was one of Shepard's last stops. It was the end for Urdnot Wrex. It was the end for Ashley Williams. Shepard left Williams to rot with a bomb while she rescued Lieutenant Kaidan Alenko and an STG team. Special Tasks Group," she says, reading the question in the Grace's face. "Salarians and an alien sympathizer."

Are salarians bad, too? Grace hasn't met many of them. All races seem to be equally disreputable. "What do you want me to say?"

"I don't want you to say anything," there's a finality to her words before she relents. "Just learn it." Grace watches her from the corner of her eye. The swelling in her face has gone down considerably, though her caramel skin is still purple and yellow with bruises. "Virmire's beautiful, isn't it?"

"It's just another planet," Grace bluffs. She's tired of looking at the sand and the water that stretches into forever. She returns inside, taking with her the heat of the sun that clings to her skin, the sand at her feet. She makes sure to shake it away, not wanting to bring it in with her and create a mess. Hope follows but drags sand in. Grace wishes Hope would be more considerate. "You look like you're feeling better."

"I _look_ like shit. I am feeling better. My ribs have mended. Well enough for me to take deep breaths, anyway." She retrieves two glasses from the counter and pours water for Grace and bourbon for herself. Grace ignores the glass. Hope moves around the kitchen island to stand in front of her. "You're pouting. It doesn't become you."

Grace tries to hold on to the ire as she stares at Hope. It's swallowed by a gaping melancholy the longer she looks at her, marred by whatever maniac attacked her. "You don't think anything becomes me."

"That's not true." She looks away from her and has a drink of the bourbon. Grace remembers the smell, how it burned sliding down her throat. Volkova gave her some weeks ago. She didn't care for it. She did like the heat. "You're angry about before but you shouldn't be. You have a purpose. You weren't built for love."

"I wasn't built at all!" She stalks away from her before pacing back and forth, returning to where Hope watches, emotionlessly. "When will you stop talking to me as if I were some… You used to call me 'it' for fuck's sake. I am not an 'it'! I'm a person! I'm Grace!" Yes. She's a person with memories and experiences and regrets and feelings, feelings she despises, that she wishes she could discard.

Hope is quiet for a long time. "You are Jane Shepard." Grace claps her hands to her head, covering her ears, not wanting to hear it, not wanting the role, her assignment. She squeezes her eyes shut not wanting to see. Hope goes to her, takes her wrists in her hands. "You are precious. You are special. You are more than you think you are. Look at me." Grace does, resentfully, her lower lip unable to still. "The person who did this to me wanted you. He isn't someone you stand a chance against. Not yet." Grace is unsteady at the revelation. "Every single blow was worth it. I would take that and more." She releases her. "Don't be ungrateful. I know you've had a poor teacher—but you're better than that." Grace's eyes sting. "You think you know love, think you want love, but you don't. It's a weakness. Be grateful you can't know it. Be grateful I can't."

Hope slides her fingers beneath Grace's shirt, ripping the air from her lungs in the process. Her grazing touches along her skin set her aflame. Grace watches Hope's face, the way her eyes darken and flare as they meet hers. "This is different," Hope murmurs. "Don't believe the vids. Don't believe the propaganda. One has nothing to do with the other." Hope removes Grace's shirt, even as the action looks to pain her.

Grace's anger is softened again. She takes the shirt delicately from her and sets it aside. "You haven't recovered." Hope grasps her face, kisses her like a whisper. Her tongue slips between Grace's lips, making her moan, making her unsteady and hot.

Hope takes Grace's nervous hands and brings them to her body. Grace is afraid to hold her. Hurt her. She fears the fire raging through her that wants to claim Hope so vehemently, urgently, desperately. "We'll be careful." She silences Grace's protest with another kiss. "Very careful."

* * *

Shepard storms through the ship, blood and sweat pouring down her face, ignoring the crew that hurriedly moves out of her way. Garrus and Samara were behind her but she's already forgotten them, jamming the button to Miranda's office and striding in.

For once there's a reaction. Miranda stands as quickly as Shepard enters and dodges the helmet Shepard hurls in her direction. It bounces off the wall, clattering before spinning on the floor. Miranda puts her hands up and Shepard almost laughs, as if that could stop her, calm her. "I know what you're thinking—"

"Fuck you," Shepard growls, slamming a fist on the desk, a flush of biotic energy cracking Miranda's coffee mug, causing a short in the computer equipment in front of her. As if she could fucking know, the snake. "Don't you _think_ of lying to me—"

"But I didn't know—"

"Bullshit!"

" _I. Didn't. Know."_

Shepard's heart beats out of control, blue tendrils of biotic power radiating off her. Miranda almost looks alarmed. Scared of her. Fucking finally. These assholes act like she's a joke. These assholes think she's just going to take it forever. "You're the XO, Miranda. You're the Illusive Man's right hand," Miranda scoffs but Shepard fixes her with a glare so deadly that she stops and waits, cocking her head, jaw tightening, "how the _fuck_ do you expect me to believe that you weren't in on it? You sent us on a fucking Collector ship—" Miranda tries to speak but Shepard slams a fist into the desk again. It begins to split. Miranda quiets. "Under false pretenses. You sent us into a trap and you risked this operation and _my_ team—!"

"So now you care about the operation?" Miranda asks. Shepard pounds her fist into the desk again. This time it collapses, the shorted terminal sliding to the floor. "Are you finished?"

Shepard reaches across the smashed desk, taking such tight hold of Miranda's uniform that a button comes undone when she yanks her close, face nearly pressed to hers. "I'll be finished when I'm goddamned ready to be finished." Shepard breathes heavily. Miranda has gone limp like a doll. Maybe she thinks of her as some wild animal. Better to play dead. Something like that. "I want you off my ship."

"That's not negotiable," Miranda says tightly, "no matter what any of us may want." Shepard's chest heaves. Miranda's uniform is open. Shepard notices her ivory skin, contrasted against the black lace of her bra. Shepard blinks and releases Miranda, stepping back, momentarily rattled. It's hard to uncurl her fingers; they're accustomed to being held in a fist. Her fingers anxiously come to her forehead. Miranda buttons her uniform. "Are you all right?" she asks quietly.

She has a headache. She wonders how many cameras are on her right now. Shepard looks at Miranda cuttingly. "I want to talk to the Illusive Man and I want to talk to him yesterday. _Do it._ "

* * *

Shepard's image vanishes from the holo-pad as the Illusive Man looks on coolly. The commander is finally beginning to play along. She was enraged at first, but a careful explanation of his rationale for sending her into the Collectors' trap eventually soothed her ire. Miranda's doubts were unfounded. Shepard's reputation has always been steeped in doing whatever it takes to get the job done. While Shepard would take issue with the assertion that he and she share anything in common, her disagreement is ultimately irrelevant. She knows just as well as he does that she will do whatever it takes to get the job done, ethics notwithstanding.

The Illusive Man holds the smoke in his lungs as he considers the work laid out before him. Hope Lilium is dead. She was a talented agent. It's a pity that she decided to turn against Cerberus; her future at the organization was promising. Regardless, clone X8 remains at large. If the surveillance feeds at New Canton showed him anything, it's that X8 developed exceptionally. Her biotic prowess is comparable to Shepard's, if not greater.

The twelve clones were meant to be a perfect match but sometimes there are minuscule factors that cause drastic variances in development. Most haven't yielded the desired results. X8 is the only success and she's on the loose. More troubling is the matter in which Harbinger referred to X8 as 'Shepard.' The clones were meant to be scrap material for Commander Shepard. He doesn't need a fully functional agent on the loose. Not now when Shepard is coming around. He is not foolish enough, however, to disregard her potential.

He exhales smoke as Kai Leng strides into the room. From the way he carries himself, the Illusive Man knows he has no leads. The Illusive Man wastes no time. "Information on Paul Grayson is slowly trickling in. You'll be expected to drop everything and attend to the matter when I ask."

"Of course."

He nods. "I have recently received word from our labs. Results for the neural implant prototypes are encouraging. X8 is a perfect candidate for the Phantom Project but she still hasn't been retrieved." Kai Leng stiffens at the words but Illusive Man is in no hurry to reassure him. If they're going to face the Reapers they'll need every weapon in their arsenal. The Phantom Project could be a boon to humanity. He massages his skull. His recent headaches are an ongoing battle it would seem. "In the meantime, I want you to get to the clone facility. X3 is by no means perfect but she will be a suitable candidate until X8 can be retrieved." He flicks the end of his cigarette into the ashtray.

"X3 is viable?" Kai Leng asks.

"X3 has abnormalities," he readjusts in his chair, "but she'll make a suitable stand-in until X8 is retrieved. Train her. You failed me once, Leng. See to it that it doesn't happen again."

Kai Leng bows his head, turning to exit. The Illusive Man crushes his cigarette, hoping his faith in Leng has not been misplaced.


	9. Tabula

The mines were always dark and cold. Hope doesn't believe in ghosts, but the more foolish men scraping alongside of her would whisper of such things. Scrawny and small, a forced child laborer, she lived each moment in fear, knowing one slip was all it would take for a pissed off foreman to beat her to death. She'd seen it before and they never hesitated simply because a 'boy child' was there to witness it. No, at times it was meant to be a lesson.

Who was that woman that saved her and would have left her to rot? Who was that 'Miss Brooks?'

The clone climaxes. She's like a virgin in so many ways. No doubt whatever her entangled feelings are for Hope, they aid the process. The clone is curious and somewhat clumsy, but she is attentive and eager. A fuck is a fuck, no matter what the instrument. Hope has been tense.

The clone sits up, looking thoughtful, hand grazing along Hope's face carefully, despite the quickly disappearing bruises. _We'll be careful. Very careful._ The process is a dangerous one. The clone must be kept close enough to not run away, but at enough distance that she doesn't become weak.

The clone's gentle touches always feel like trickery, more violent than violence. Hope reminds herself that the clone is a shadow that will someday surpass Shepard, but that is all. No one must be trusted. She cannot let down her guard for even a moment. "What are you thinking about?" The clone asks. Hope takes her arm and pulls it away from her. Hurt fills her eyes and is quickly shrouded.

Hope nearly tells her to never ask her what she's thinking. "I'm thinking about all that we have left to do. We'll be going to Illium soon."

"Again? Why?"

Hope doesn't answer. That woman back in the mines never answered her questions. She remembers the slimy feeling that filled her as she was toyed with, led around to do the bidding of a woman she knew nothing about. She taught her how to become a little actress. That woman didn't care about her. No one did. Not as a child. Not now. Funny how she surfaces in her mind every now and then, despite how Hope thinks she's forgotten.

"Hope?"

She has learned to respond to that name. She looks at the clone. This time when Grace's soft, curious touch explores along her skin, Hope allows it.

* * *

Samara's mouth is hot like the scorching sun. Shepard remembers how it clung to her skin on her rare visits to Earth, making her olive tone deeper. She never burns but her flesh captures heat. Her mouth traps Samara's fire. Shepard thinks it's strange how they can smolder. They're both icy bitches.

Shepard yanks the material from Samara's torso. For a long time she looks at her. Not with lust but with a critical eye. She is not Liara. Liara is younger. Beautiful. Softer. Shepard closes her eyes and tries to shake her off. She kneels before her, gingerly grabbing Samara's waist and pulling her near. Her flesh is unbelievably smooth. How curious it looks on closer inspection, almost scaly but not quite. Shepard presses her lips to Samara's belly and the woman looks down at her in judgment.

Samara has become proactive but her disdain never wavers. It's appropriate. Samara doesn't quite hate her. She can't muster the feeling. Shepard isn't worth the sentiment. It reassures Shepard, who wonders what ways Samara plans on killing her when they fuck. The sex is good. Off the charts. She doesn't throw up anymore.

"You like asari," Samara tells her, head cocked contemplatively. She's still as Shepard pulls the clothing down over her hips. Shepard hates it when she talks. She doesn't sound anything like Liara or Sha'ira. Shepard's fingers remain wedged between Samara's skin and the fabric. She looks up at her and thinking there's nothing to be ashamed of, all things considered, she nods. Another cold ripple passes over her gaze.

Samara's hand lashes out so suddenly it takes Shepard by surprise. Shepard's head is twisted awkwardly to the side as Samara's fingers clench around a handful of hair. Shepard gasps in pained surprise. "I have a request to ask of you," she leans down, her face close, "but I know what you want. I will wait until we have finished." Shepard's eyes burn on her. Samara releases her only long enough to kick her back forcefully. She stalks closer, a heel pressed into Shepard's shoulder. "I cannot kill you at this time," she tells her and for the first time, regret enters her voice. Her heel digs deeper. Shepard bites back a yowl. "I've seen her in your mind, Shepard. Liara T'Soni." Her eyes half-close in thought. "It must be painful to be removed from your love. To have someone so consume you that you can think of nothing else." Shepard tries to remove the boot from her shoulder but Samara flushes blue and keeps her pinned like a slug on some medical tray. "I am puzzled that you think you know how to love. A woman of your actions couldn't possibly know. You are broken, Shepard. Perhaps Liara T'Soni knows that as well. Perhaps that is why she has not been in contact."

With a growl Shepard removes herself from beneath Samara. She springs to her feet, her hand clamping tightly around Samara's throat before slamming her against the wall. But there's no fear in Samara's eyes. She looks at her as if she's nothing.

* * *

X3's face and body is a pattern of zig-zag scars cutting over her otherwise unblemished skin. She stands naked before Kai Leng, not hobbled by modesty or shame. Her eyes, one brown, the other green, are hard and bitingly cold. It may surprise others but not him. He isn't so stupid to believe that a person's nature is determined by the color of their eyes.

He hadn't anticipated this job. The Illusive Man is never forthcoming, no matter if Kai Leng is his right hand. He has no idea what kind of psychological conditioning X3 has gone through, but he hopes she is upgraded. The Illusive Man knows how to get the best out of people, and he is in no mood to be assigned babysitting duty. Surely there is a better use of his time than watching over this woman. But he knows the Illusive Man, trusts the Illusive Man. He wouldn't send him if it wasn't necessary, if he wasn't the best equipped for the job.

"The Illusive Man has plans for you," Kai Leng says. "If you survive our test run we may even keep you around." X3 gives no physical or verbal response. He moves around her. Her body is sculpted like an athlete's. From the corner of his eyes he can see the other clone models laid out, some in pieces, like a morgue. Kai Leng wonders if it bothers her that she's cannibalized from scraps of failed creations. Recovering X8 will be crucial. "Do you talk?"

"If there's something worth saying." Her tone is unfeeling and condescending. "Are you through looking?" Kai Leng stands in front of her but she doesn't flinch, doesn't move back.

"Do you have her memories?" Kai Leng waits. She looks through him but her gaze is as sharp as knives. He turns his head to the side to study her. She is remarkable. Will he have to break her, or is she already primed? Kai Leng hates wasting time.

"No. I know how to fight. I know how to kill."

Good. Memories are a hindrance. Emotional baggage. X3 needs Shepard's talent for killing, nothing more. Kai Leng takes a swipe at her; she pulls her shoulder back, dodging it, leaping to the side acrobatically when he tries a roundhouse. They both land lightly on their feet, emotionless and agile. It'll do for now. He throws a Cerberus uniform at her, white and black, streaks of gold running along the arm. "Get dressed. We have work to do."

* * *

There's a bootleg copy of a Shepard VI on Illium. Hope's presence is tentative and near. Grace's body constricts with tension. The Shepard VI bears her face and form, it glows orange, an arrogant smirk on its lips. _What are you looking at? You've got five seconds to explain yourself or I'll let my shotgun do the talking._ Grace frowns. _Join the Alliance today! If you've got the guts._ Hope stands beside her, smiling wryly at the VI. "I prefer you," Hope tells Grace.

Grace glances at her. The sentiment is unexpected, but before Grace can say anything Hope has already rolled her eyes and moved on her way. Was it a slip on Hope's behalf? Hope never says those things lightly. Hope can make her feel as if she's made of air, floating away as pleasure cascades over her. Grace tells herself that one has nothing to do with another. It's certainly true that Hope's words never match her actions in the bedroom. Grace acknowledges that she's naïve. Hope thinks she's naïve.

She looks back at the VI; it sets its hands on its hips and fixes Grace in its stare. _You're a mighty fine looking specimen, Soldier! Almost as good as the real thing. But there's only one Commander Shepard._

Grace glowers at it and moves on her way, following after Hope who is reclining against a railing, watching cabs glide through the sky. There's a krogan serenading an asari.

"Oh, Blue Rose of Illium, let your roots dig deep into the hot soil of Tuchanka. Let our scorching sun and sheeting rain turn your supple beauty into strength. For if love is to survive, it must grow thorns to pierce the hand of any that would uproot it."

The asari looks humiliated. Hope can hardly keep herself from chortling. Grace is surprised that a krogan can know and recite poetry. The extranet portrays them as ruthless warmongers. "Asari. They'll mate with anything," she twines her hands as if bored, "they've got some talents, don't get me wrong but that krogan is a mistake."

"Blue Rose of Illium," the krogan continues. The asari looks around as if to see if anyone is watching, listening. "Leave eternity unembraced and grapple in the glorious struggle that is us, here and now! I am speechless, not with blood rage, but with love, and I stand here, humble and mute, to offer you a home. Come to me, Blue Rose of Illium. Let our three hearts beat as two."

Hope scoffs again. "I think it's sweet," Grace tells Hope. The asari looks over at the two of them in desperation. Hope shakes her head. Grace smiles and gives her a thumb's up. Hope whacks her arm and drags her away. "Where are we going?"

"Do you think Commander Shepard wastes her time playing matchmaker?" Hope snaps. Grace keeps her mouth shut. It's taken her months to figure out what rhetorical questions are. Hope never asks when she's happy. "There's an asari, Shiala, who's trying to negotiate a contract with Erinya, another asari. Zhu's Hope is experiencing a bit of trouble. Erinya is trying to cheat them. She's racist," Hope says bitterly. "Shiala knew Shepard," she mutters under her breath, "and I have reason to believe you two can help one another."

Grace meets with a green asari intent on renegotiating the stipulations of medical contracts. The woman is surprised to see her but grateful, asking for her help once more with Zhu's Hope. Grace doesn't remember her, no matter how familiar she is. Hope stands to the side, arms crossed, watching the interaction with a critical eye. "I didn't know they made green asari," Grace whispers to her after her initial conversation with Shiala.

"They don't. Something's wrong with her." A beat. "Now go convince Erinya to renegotiate the contracts."

"I'm surprised you want to help an asari."

Hope smiles sardonically. "We're helping the humans on Zhu's Hope," she says, "from asari tyranny." Another smile and she stands closer, voice lowering. "I want to watch you with Erinya. This isn't like what you've done before. You can't just beat her into giving you answers—not on Illium."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Charm her. Or scare her. Your choice."

Grace intends to intimidate Erinya but as soon as the woman begins spilling her sob story, Grace hesitates. She hadn't expected Hope to give her a choice on how to handle the matter. The CAT6 academy taught her how to extract information the easy way (or the painful way, if you were on the other end of it). It's what she's accustomed to but it isn't what she likes. Without even considering better judgment she asks about Erinya's "bondmate" and daughters. Soon the woman is in tears and not long after the contracts have been modified. Grace heads to Hope who smiles with approval.

"Shiala's eyeing you up as if you're a prized meal and she's famished. Use it to your advantage," Hope jabs a finger into Grace's chest. "Tell her it's all taken care of—but it can easily be undone. Tell her to meet you somewhere in private and then ask for the Cipher."

Grace doesn't want to go anywhere with the asari. "The what?"

* * *

Maelon's brains splatter along the massive monitor. Shepard thinks of Urdnot Wrex. Any time someone's itching to cure the genophage there are problems. Miranda's lips thin but she thinks better than to say anything. Mordin's face, previously rancorous and white with rage has become blank. Shepard detects a hint of sadness in it as he stoops beside Maelon's body, the gun still smoking in his hand.

"Don't question yourself," Shepard tells Mordin. "You begin to do that and you'll lose it." Mordin takes a deep breath, an impressive achievement in the too-dry planet of Tuchanka. The entire lab smells of blood and various other bodily fluids, combined with the bitter tanginess of chemicals. She pats his shoulder heavily, a poor attempt at comfort. "Son of a bitch deserved to die." Not like Ash, not like Wrex. No one told her she'd done the right thing then. Liara had touched her face after the fact, back then when it had been unlined with burning scars. _Oh, Shepard._

"Thank you, Shepard," Mordin says getting to his feet. "Apologize. Too emotional. Not like me." He takes another deep breath and then he's back to normal. "Only question left is what to do with data. Could be useful in the future but the result of irresponsible work, unethical experiments."

"Get rid of it," Miranda says. Mordin hums. Shepard steps over Maelon's corpse to get a better look at her. "These experiments were despicable. You said so yourself."

"Cut the bullshit, Miranda," Shepard watches Miranda wrinkle her nose at the air. "You didn't give two shits about putting a control chip in my head. If it wasn't for the Illusive Man I'd be nothing more than a robot. Have you forgotten that you work for Cerberus? No one gets as high up in the organization as you have without knowing what they _really_ do. And we both know, Miranda. I saw Cerberus' twisted labs, I _know_ what Cerberus did to Jack. Haven't seen you losing any sleep over that one, either."

Miranda's eyes are momentarily unreadable and the next moment they're dancing. Shepard doesn't know why but it makes her paranoid. What is she thinking? Why is she looking at her like that? "Cerberus is a human survivalist group. Without the experiments you're currently bemoaning, you wouldn't be here." She looks to the computer monitor. Mordin's fingers are gliding along the keys, pretending as if they aren't there. "We can't risk curing the genophage."

"Look, I like krogan as much as the salarians do but this," she points at the computer, "is information. We could use this."

"How?"

"I don't know," she sputters. The corners of Miranda's mouth lift gently. Shepard wants to strangle her. "But why throw it away? Maelon's experiments may be despicable but he made progress. Who knows how we could use this in the future?" She shakes her head. "Frankly, Miranda, I'm getting tired of all your xenophobic bullshit. Save the data, Mordin."

"Shepard—"

"Stand down, Miranda," Shepard threatens. Miranda's expression goes stony but she keeps quiet. They wait for the data to upload to the _Normandy_. It takes longer than anticipated and Shepard turns sharply when she sees something out of the corner of her eye. Her shotgun is bared but nothing is there. She lowers the shotgun and rubs her eyes, ignoring Miranda's quizzically cocked eyebrow. She needs some goddamn R &R. Fat fucking chance of getting it.

* * *

Grace tries to ignore the pain in her back. Hours ago she'd awoken on a floor. Shiala sat by a window, standing quickly upon seeing her rouse. _By the Goddess, Shepard. I thought I'd killed you. I knew my powers were unstable. I never meant to endanger you._ Now Grace wanders Illium restlessly, attempting to fend away the crippling exhaustion that has seized her, the pounding in her skull.

She tries to make sense of the images in her head, like some choppy vid, the screeching that tears through her mind, giant mechanical insects, a turian with an arm like a geth, _Saren,_ men and women, people she knew? She still isn't sure what the Cipher is. She can only assume they are memories, photographs of memories that stab into her head. There's a quarian, a turian, soldiers, a krogan and an asari that makes her feel lightheaded.

Where's Hope? She isn't sure how much time has passed since they separated. She's at a shop, mindlessly staring at model ships when there's a tap on her shoulder. Grace turns, expecting to find Hope, but it's an asari. One she doesn't recognize. "Commander Shepard," she says. Grace grimaces. She's getting really damn tired of being referred to that way. She tries to correct her but the pounding in her head and the fatigue keeps her from speaking. "Your presence has been requested. Please follow me."

Grace follows after her. Is it Shiala who wants to see her? Or Hope? She'd like to get off this planet. She feels shaky and weak, perspiration coating her like a second skin. She's led up a set of stairs and into an office. Grace looks around uncertainly. The space overlooks Illium and Grace can see the path she walked to get here. Displays hang seamlessly in the air, streaming constantly with chunks of text and graphs.

"Jane," the voice is unidentifiable and yet familiar. An uncomfortable chord strikes Grace as she flinches at the name. The chair behind the desk turns and an asari in a long formfitting white coat stands. Grace's mouth goes dry. Where's Hope? Once again she looks around and turns her back to her, trying to find her balance, a hand pressing to the wall. She takes a shaky breath and tries to exit. "I'm sorry. Please." A long silence passes. Grace's heart beats uncontrollably, a wave of dizziness passing over her. "I do not mean to keep sending strange women to greet you. I have a lot of work and well… I have my enemies. I hope you understand."

Grace stares at the wall, paralyzed.

"I am sorry I have not responded to your messages. The truth is…" Whatever she's going to say she isn't sure how to continue and the words fall flat. With a sense of dread, Grace turns to face her. Surprise touches on the asari's delicate features. Strange how she can look innocent and ominous in one, dark lipstick painted on the soft lines on her lips. She's beautiful. She feels guilty for thinking it. "You look better." Her smile is somewhat bashful and Grace feels hot tension sink into her as the woman approaches. "I know you said it'd be fixed. In your email," she clarifies. "I've read it more times than I can count. Some part of me thought…" she bites her lip. "It is so very good to see you." Grace looks at her anxiously. The asari brings a hand to her own forehead. "I understand if you're angry. After I saw you… I told myself I'd keep focused on my work. You've always had a talent for…distracting me," she smiles bittersweetly. "But I saw you wandering… you looked a little lost and well… I suppose I couldn't help myself."

The woman's face becomes clearer somehow. Grace can see a time when her face was fuller, she was younger, when she looked radically different somehow. "Liara…?" It's a guess. She doesn't know.

"So you can talk," Liara breathes. She comes closer but Grace pulls away. Liara stops in her tracks. "Since you're here, I might as well tell you that I can't go with you. Not now. I told you what I must do. At least you have Miranda to work in my stead. I know she seems a hard woman, Jane but you should trust her. She brought you back, after all." Grace stares at her. Liara may as well be speaking another language for all that Grace understands of what she's talking about. Liara sighs. "I never figured you one for the silent treatment. Are you well…? You look a little pale." Her hand is pressed to Grace's forehead before she can stop her, the back of her hand gliding gently down her face. Grace's cheeks heat unexpectedly. What is it with these tactile asari? Don't they understand anything about personal bubbles? Grace is a bundle of nerves. Hope would be furious and the asari's light eyes make her feel conflicted, warm and cold, disgusted and aroused.

"I'm a little tired," Grace manages, unable to meet her eyes.

"Yes, I imagine so. Hunting Collectors must take a toll."

"Collectors?" Grace asks. The asari, _Liara_ , has face markings for eyebrows. They rise as if in question. "Oh, right." She says but she doesn't know what it is she's talking about. The bug things, maybe? They collected people. Collectors? She's not sure. "It's been a long…everything," she finishes weakly. "I have a lot on my mind."

"I'm sure," her hands drop to Grace's, taking them. Grace looks down at their linked hands. The blue is strange against her skin. Grace's lip curls but she forces her face to become neutral. She's still unsteady. "I know how hard this must be for you. I know your feelings about Cerberus and… I know that it's hard to be apart. It is for me, too," she says softly. Grace tries to swallow but can't. Her mouth feels as if it's been stuffed with dry leaves. "I can't give you what you need. Not now, but..." Liara leans forward, connecting their lips gently. Grace's eyes widen, her heart rate spiking. Liara's mouth is soft and wet. Grace's eyes nearly close, lips nearly parting before Liara pulls away. "I apologize. I suppose that was unfair."

"It's okay," Grace says weakly, fighting the bewildering fire that fills her.

Liara smiles. "I'm lucky that you've always had a soft spot for me." She cups Grace's face, thumb easing along her cheek.

Grace takes Liara's wrist, grappling with the urge to press her lips to her fingers. This is weird. Really weird. Uncomfortable. Confusing. She forces herself to release her hand. Maybe Jane Shepard would smile at Liara. She smiles uncertainly. "I should go."

"Yes," Liara says sadly. "I imagine you should."


	10. Lazarus

The white light has a soft quality. It isn't hard like the light of a lab. She hates labs. The light is comforting, warm. It embraces her. It lets her sleep. Shepard's thoughts float. She's been tired. Miranda brought her back but not all of her.

' _Shh.'_

Her arm is gently pushed down. She tastes blood in her mouth. Her teeth are loose. Her nose is twisted. The crippling pain is fading and Shepard doesn't know whether to be grateful. She's been numb since being pieced back together. It hurts to breathe.

Chakwas is clucking in her soft reassuring way. Chakwas. Where would she be without Chakwas? Chakwas keeps her grounded. Chakwas scanned her and assured her everything was all right. Shepard trusts her as much as she trusts anyone.

Another voice. Miranda. She is collected and firm. She and Chakwas exchange words. 'Keep her still,' Miranda says. A shot is injected into her neck. Will they have to strip her? Will they see that the scars extend everywhere? Will they see her naked and broken…?

No. This will fix her. This will make her suitable for Liara.

 _Shepard, you need this now. No arguing._

Miranda. Not now. When? Time is relative.

She hadn't argued. Not that she could argue with a broken jaw. She drowns in memories. She thinks of Liara and when she looked at her with purity and admiration. Liara was the first to make her think about settling down. Having kids. Little blue babies. Her lips, split and bleeding, pull into a smile thinking of it. There's no pain.

Going under is slow. It takes time. It is subtle. It's like going to sleep. She remembers gliding with the stars. The memory, sparked, makes her panic. Is she dying? She hears the electronic beeping of monitoring equipment. Miranda is swearing. Is she waking up for the first time? Is she in the Lazarus Cell? Shepard tries to open her eyes.

She doesn't feel the next injection. Everything is still. There are fingertips along her forehead. Was this the right thing to do? A fresh start. Everyone deserves a fresh start.

She goes under.

* * *

Hope worries about the alien influence. Shepard first began to betray humanity's interests when her mission against Saren forced her to work with aliens. Hope has found herself in the uncomfortable situation of having to utilize their services to prepare 'Grace' for the role she must fill.

Krogan and asari have trained her to fight. Asari gave her biotic implants. An asari gave her the Cipher, but also something more. 'Grace' has been quieter, thoughtful. Hope is wary that she may have been burdened with memories of Commander Shepard. The path is unclear. With Cerberus and the Illusive Man after them, they can't utilize the brightest humanity has to offer.

Now they have to see Sha'ira. Hope massages her forehead thinking about it. Is it worth it? Will 'Grace' become too sympathetic towards them? Will she start to think like Shepard? Everything she sets into motion is a delicate game. It is beginning to wear.

They're still in Illium. 'Grace' has been tired. If the previous records Hope read were accurate, Shepard too suffered from exhaustion after receiving the Cipher. It's prudent, Hope thinks, if 'Grace' rests. Outside, the sky is black, save for colorful streaks of cab lights that break through the darkness. 'Grace' lies on the bed, propped on pillows. A Paladin sits beside her on the nightstand. She's using Hope's laptop, ingesting more files on Shepard. The obsession that had waned has returned in full force.

Hope hadn't anticipated the visit with Shiala would take so long. She debated intervening, to assess the situation, but 'Grace's' vitals were relatively strong despite the disruption. Hope left her and tracked her movements. She wasn't fast enough to catch her before she was taken to speak with Liara T'Soni. Instead, she waited some distance away for 'Grace' to exit. She did not snatch her arm as she intended to. Illium is constantly monitored and 'Grace' in that particular moment was vulnerable. They both were. So Hope remained cloaked until they could speak privately without being eavesdropped on. "What happened?" she demanded. For hours, 'Grace' refused to tell her.

When 'Grace' finally revealed the nature of the meeting, she flinched. "I did what I thought Shepard would do. I think they're in love." She said it with that same stupid wide-eyed wonder with which she says anything related to 'love', and Hope felt her aggravation mount. "She told me I looked better," and 'Grace' beamed then. Hope tried to recall a time she'd seen her smile in that way. "Think she fancied me?"

"Strike that word from your vocabulary," Hope told her irritably. She doubts "fancy" is a word Shepard uses, at least in the context 'Grace' meant. She told herself to be mindful of her vocabulary around 'Grace'. "Did she think it was Shepard?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." There was a pause. "She kissed me."

Hope frowned. It occurred to her that Liara T'Soni had thrown a wrench into the plans and could have easily undone all her hard work. 'Grace' could have undone all her hard work. She kept her face neutral. "And then what?" 'Grace' waited. "What was it like?" she enunciated every word carefully and wasn't immediately sure if the clarification was the question she initially asked.

"Does it matter?" 'Grace' set her gaze on her intently and Hope loathed her for hinting that the interrogation was the cause of some jealousy. Sensing she was on thin ice, 'Grace' pushed forward. "I didn't want to. But I did. She's pretty. For an asari."

So what if she's pretty? "Did you feel anything?"

"Her lips were soft." 'Grace' quickly gathered this wasn't the response Hope was looking for. "It was repulsive." Hope straightened at the words, restraining herself from nodding. "She felt…familiar. That's all," but for the first time, 'Grace' turned her eyes evasively.

And now, Hope has to thrust her into the arms of another asari. Hope sits on the other side of the bed and once again begins the tedious process of combing through information on her omni-tool. It is tiring and it requires a good deal of sifting through data that has little relevance to their mission. It's easier on the laptop but she'll allow 'Grace' her little fixation. Her eyes are growing heavy when 'Grace' speaks.

"Liara said I looked better," 'Grace' says. Hope doesn't like the familiarity with which she says the name, as if they're friends, allies, or more. "Do you think something has happened to Commander Shepard?" The distress in her tone would be laughable if it weren't so concerning. Hope wonders if 'Grace' thinks replacing Shepard will simply happen by asking her to step aside.

"For our sake we'd best hope not." Hope has impressed on 'Grace' that she isn't to get a scratch or scar on her that Shepard doesn't have. Medi-gel has mercifully taken care of some of the damage that she's incurred but 'Grace's' words worry her. What has happened to Commander Shepard that 'Grace' looks better? Perhaps the asari only meant that 'Grace' looks better rested. And she is. Without the baggage, without Shepard's sad history and failures she will be more confident, more prepared to take on the battle against the Reapers.

Hope studies 'Grace's' face. A lock of brown hair has fallen over her eyes and 'Grace' blows air distractedly at it trying to get it away, too engrossed in whatever article she's reading about Shepard to physically move. Hope reaches out to push it back but stops when 'Grace' turns her attention towards her. She snatches the computer away instead. "I think that's about enough of that for you."

* * *

Shepard stares at her reflection in the cabin mirror. The scars of her former life are gone. She tells herself she was never going to get those back. She got back her life. She can't nitpick the scars. Not like Miranda would have gotten them right anyway.

It's strange to see her face unmarred. It rejuvenates her and fills her with dizzying, hopeful energy. She doesn't have to be ashamed to be seen by Liara. It can be the way it was before. Her face throbs painfully but Chakwas assures her it is only temporary. It could be memory playing tricks on her, recalling the battering blows to her face. It's all taken care of now.

It is remarkable what modern science can do. It brought her back from the grave. It restored her attractive features. Garrus practically chortled when he saw she'd undergone the operation. _Not everyone has the good looks to pull off scars, Shepard. Don't worry, it's not like anyone thinks you're vain_. She'd smiled, shoving him playfully. _Looks like someone's worried they're going to have some competition during shore leave._

Invigorated, she leaves the cabin and takes the elevator down to the crew deck. Most do a double-take before nodding approvingly towards her. She doesn't need the validation of any Cerberus operatives but their positive response is reassuring. They avoided her eyes prior, nearly wincing at seeing her face. Her pupils were red for fuck's sake.

Shepard doesn't mind if people are afraid of her. They'd be stupid not to be. But not because of what she looks like, not because of some scientific screw-up. Chakwas told her a negative attitude would cause her body to reject the implants. Shepard respects the doctor but if that wasn't some Cerberus spoon-fed advice to get her to fall in line she doesn't know what is. Maybe they _knew_ the implants would fail. Maybe they _wanted_ to scare her. Break them and mold them. She understands the tactic. She admires it. But it won't work on her.

She marches into Miranda's office. The desk that Shepard previously crumpled has been replaced. When Shepard remembers the incident, two feelings conflict. That of pleasure, of savoring the brief glimpse of fear in Miranda's eyes and another, more sour bitter note of shame. Shepard tries to cut herself some slack. She was dead for two years and everyone moved on. Those she cares for most won't help her, won't try to understand her. Her escalated behavior is normal, reactive. She considers talking to Kelly about it. It'll make her feel useful and valued, like she's something more than a glorified messenger girl.

Miranda turns away from the stack of datapads she's browsing and looks at her. "Shepard." She's taken aback and Shepard is happy to see her eyebrows arch, her lips part in surprise. For the first time, she realizes that the executive officer is beautiful—maybe she'd have noticed sooner if Miranda weren't always such a bitch. "You're looking well."

"Yeah," she picks up a glass tumbler from the desk, studying it before looking back at her. Shepard wonders if she's pushed Miranda to drinking. The glass is clean but that means nothing." Guess Chakwas knows her way around reconstructive surgery better than you do." She gets only a pale, indulging smile in response. Shepard's stomach drops and she restrains herself from saying something she'll regret. This is a new beginning. They told her any future actions wouldn't affect her physical appearance but Shepard isn't sure she can trust that. It's implant after implant now. What part of her is real? "You got a minute?"

The quizzical expression on her face might have been imagined. "Sure. You rarely seek me out so I might as well take the opportunity." She sits, folds her arms to watch her. Shepard sits cautiously as if the chair has been rigged with explosives. This is a different interaction than they're used to and though Shepard is the one setting the tone she can't help but feel uneasy. A long silence passes while Shepard tries to work at what she wants to say. "I'll try to be a good hostess and let you settle in. I'm pleased. The operation went better than I expected. You were in really rough shape, Shepard. Not worse than when I got your body but damned close."

"I know," she says curtly. She bites her tongue and hunches forward, hands twined as she regards the woman. "I don't want to talk about that, if you don't mind." Miranda gives a small shake of her head that tells her she's in agreement. "We got off to the wrong foot. I'll give it to you straight—I still don't trust you or Cerberus. I've seen too much." Miranda's emotions are evasive, her face unreadable. Shepard hates her inability to get a read on her the way she can any other individual. "But… maybe there's room for my opinion to evolve." Miranda sits up straighter. "The last time I came in here I waved you around like you were a rag doll," she can't help smiling at it. Again, Miranda's face doesn't change. Shepard forces herself to bury the smile. "I never apologized. It was wrong. I'm sorry. I can't tell you what I was thinking." She takes a breath. "Things have been…damned different since I returned. I've acted out. I may not like you but that's no reason to not treat you with respect. You brought me back. It's the least I can do."

The color of Miranda's icy eyes seems to shift in the darkness. She ducks her chin thoughtfully before lancing Shepard with her gaze. "I understand that this is not an easy situation, Shepard. I'd be lying if I said you're the first to dislike me. It could be that you'll never see Cerberus as something other than a terrorist organization. However, I am happy that you're giving us the opportunity. That's all I've ever asked."

Shepard nods. She stands and when she does so does Miranda. Shepard goes to the door, hesitates and turns back to look at her. "The situation with your sister—Oriana. Has it been taken care of?" Miranda's stare is frigid again. Shepard sees that she has misunderstood her intent. "We could go. To Illium. Try to get her."

Miranda straightens, her fingertips on the desk as if to steady herself. "That's…" she takes a breath. "That won't be necessary. My father has already taken her."

Shepard goes cold. "When?"

"When you were undergoing your operation, as a matter of fact," she says cleanly, the blow hard and precise like the edge of a razor. "He has the means to stay hidden for a very long time. It's likely I'll never see her again." There is an unsteadiness buried in her voice. "Neither one of us can afford to dwell on it. For now, we continue to focus on the mission. That's all we can do."

Shepard nods. She apologizes, surprised she means it.

* * *

Sha'ira sees their shadows like cutouts as she descends into the lounge area of the Consort Chambers. It's late. She reasons the attendant must be Nyla but the other woman is unidentifiable. What's clear is that there is a gun pressed to Nyla's stomach. Sha'ira hears the woman say "I'm sorry, but I can't leave without seeing her."

Sha'ira doesn't shy away from the scene. Violence rarely enters her domain. Saren and the geth caused irreparable damage. Many lovely souls were lost in the chaos that followed. This is different; it's manageable. Sha'ira knows the moment that she's been spotted and decides there's no longer any point in remaining silent. "I am sure Nyla has caused you no harm. There is no need for violence or intimidation." The gun is lowered and Nyla is instantly forgotten. The woman steps into the light but Sha'ira doesn't react. "Shepard." Sha'ira sent the commander word but received no response. So she does live. She had not anticipated a visit and certainly not one like this. Shepard is gruff but has never brandished a weapon in this place. "Nyla, are you all right?"

"Yes," the asari says shakily, stepping away from Shepard.

"Are you sure?" Shepard asks. Sha'ira smiles, perplexed. "I'm sorry about—I had to see her," she repeats more quietly.

"The attendants are under strict instruction to be diligent about who enters," Sha'ira reminds Shepard. "The waiting list is years now. Thank you, Nyla. That will be all."

"But I'm the only other one here…" Nyla says uncertainly, looking cautiously between the two women. She comes closer to Sha'ira, touching her arm gently. "I understand that she is Commander Shepard but I do not feel it is safe leaving you alone with her."

If Shepard hears the words she doesn't respond to them. Her gun is already holstered as if knowing that she is on her way to getting what she wants. She crosses her arms and keeps her back to them. Sha'ira smiles at Nyla. "I am touched by your concern but the Commander and I know one another." If Shepard has come to see her and held one of her attendants at gunpoint, she can only assume the matter is dire. However she may lament Nyla's experience, she knows how easily Shepard could have killed her had she desired to. "It is all right. You may leave us."

Nyla reluctantly leaves and Sha'ira begins to lead Shepard to the private rooms in the back, removed from the lounge area. It is fitting they meet there as they have in the past. Shepard looks around as they walk, taking in the surroundings. They arrive. Sha'ira takes a seat on the couch but Shepard remains standing. "This is the third time we've met. Last time you were experiencing a great sorrow at the loss of your crew member, Ashley Williams." Shepard comes closer slowly, cautiously, her steps more graceful than Sha'ira remembers. She frowns gently. "And then there were reports that you died. I have seen darkness in your path and difficult decisions. They have been even more grievous than I foresaw." She nods at the seat beside her and Shepard sits. "You must know that I never make exceptions for appointments."

"You've made one now."

"I think that's the least I owe Commander Shepard. You saved the Destiny Ascension. You saved us all." Sha'ira watches the crinkle that furrows along Shepard's brow. "I sense that you are in need. But of what?"

Shepard draws a breath before fixing Sha'ira in her intense gaze. "I died. They brought me back but I don't remember anything." Sha'ira's frown deepens. "Someone mentioned I'd visited before. Alliance soldiers," she says though her eyes flicker then. "I need your help. I need for you to show me…what I've lost. How I was. I need all of it."

Sha'ira weighs the request. Shepard was a great help in the past. The matter with Xeltan and Septimus could have cost her everything. Sha'ira was grateful with words, with her body. Shepard appreciated one and not the other. Yet something troubles Sha'ira about the hint of frailty in those hazel eyes. Shepard seems lost. Sha'ira has heard stories about the Collectors, about vanishing human colonies. Is it something that will spread out like a cancer over the universe? Like the geth almost did? Perhaps death made Shepard afraid, made her forget. Is she Shepard anymore? "And if I don't help you?"

Shepard doesn't reach for her gun, but her eyes go hard and cold, shifting from hazel to an emerald green. Sha'ira is impressed by the sly manifestation of Shepard's biotics. Her control is remarkable; there are no tendrils of power emanating from her body. "I can't force you," Shepard says. A war rages in her mind, Sha'ira can feel it coming off her. "But it would be best for both of us if you did."

"Ah." Her words are less subtle than her biotics, but the threat reassures Sha'ira that it really is Shepard come back to life. "I've been told that meeting with me is an unforgettable experience. You're the first evidence to the contrary. You have done great deeds for the galaxy, Shepard. So I will help you." The relief that washes over Shepard's features is enough to get a smile out of Sha'ira. "Without memories it is easy to become lost. It is easy to become someone else," she glides her fingers along Shepard's cheek. She flinches and once more Sha'ira narrows her eyes thoughtfully. "You said you wanted everything back. Every memory. Is that what you still want?" She gets a grudging nod in response. Sha'ira slides closer, watching her body tense. Strange. Shepard had been so eager before. "Relax your mind, Shepard," Sha'ira's lips graze Shepard's, "and embrace eternity."

* * *

They travel for days before arriving. Noveria is more a giant chunk of ice than a habitable planet. The corporatized world has an icy, shining veneer, cold to the touch and slippery. It's desolate compared to the Citadel and the other planets Grace has traveled to. Individuals scurry to and fro at a hasty pace, talking to themselves. 'They're on calls', Hope tells her. It's business.

Grace doesn't like it. She doesn't like Noveria. It's cold and everyone glares. Her head feels as if it's been spiked by a rail gun. Shards of memories have been tearing through her mind for the past few days, meanings within grasp but eluding her. She sees the funeral of a man she doesn't recognize, a woman dressed in a decorated Alliance uniform meeting her eyes, her jaw clenched tightly. There's Shepard walking across the stage, getting a sheet of paper. Graduation? Paperwork is signed, a man with a baritone voice claps her arm, shakes her hand. An asari, a turian and a salarian stare down at Shepard, hitting something on a pedestal. Sha'ira. The way Shepard took her, rough and aggressive. That memory is particularly vivid, heightened, Grace imagines, by Sha'ira's own.

Everything's out of order. Memories enmeshed. A bomb. Virmire. A bomb on Virmire. Ashley Williams…? An older matriarch. Liara T'Soni. The meld has filled her with pride, lust, sadness, and insurmountable, crippling regret. For days Grace has battled depression and anger. Sha'ira's touch, her _mind_ is still fresh and Grace can recall too vividly how her flesh felt against her own, the heat of her tongue, the gentleness of her knowledgeable fingers.

Grace flushes from the memory, from guilt, from anger. She is torn between the disgust she felt at herself, at Hope, at Sha'ira for their coupling and the pleasure that cascaded over her throughout the exchange. Sha'ira appeared first confused and then mildly unsettled after she shared Shepard's past memories—if they could be called that. Fragments. Slivers of a past life. Her past life…? After all this time nothing makes sense.

She and Hope share a room with large ceiling-to-floor windows. Normally Hope avoids them but they're high up. The outside is inky darkness. Snow piles and sticks to the windows, covering them in a layer of frost. Grace is freezing. Worse yet she's stuck wearing an oversized pink sweater, some old relic left behind by a previous guest and the only thing she was able to get a hold of during their late arrival. The wind howls outside. Hope taps away at the computer keys. If Grace has been sullen, Hope has taken on some of her temperament. Hope finally abandoned the task of asking questions after getting only silence in return.

"Why are we here?" Grace asks sharply. Hope keeps typing on the computer. Grace glares, watching the snow whip around in the wind. She feels cool air entering the room somehow. No matter what, she can't get warm. Hope thinks she's sick but if anything has made her feel that way it's the steady stream of mind melds, of being forced to ingest memories and images that resonate yet don't seem her own. Is she supposed to remember? Are they twins? Did they spend time together? Why do they look alike? Why can't she remember? Is she the real Shepard? Is the other Shepard an imposter? She has an endless supply of questions and no answers.

Hope, who is sprawled out on the bed, the computer in her lap, doesn't look at her. "Noveria is where Commander Shepard tracked down Matriarch Benezia. She was indoctrinated and had to be killed. Liara T'Soni bore witness to it. It caused ripples throughout the intergalactic community. Matriarch Benezia was one of the most influential diplomatic figures in the galaxy and she aided the greatest criminal known to man and alien-kind. It was all _terribly_ tragic."

"You sound broken up about it."

"Your cocoa is getting cold." She tells her. Grace glances at the steaming mug that sits on the nightstand. She's never had cocoa. It has a sweet aroma to it. Normally she'd be pleased that Hope got her something, seemingly for the sake of simply giving it to her. Tonight it isn't enough. Hope takes a breath and sets the computer aside. "You're obviously angry about something. Let's hear it."

"I had to _sleep_ with that woman. Those were my orders."

"Many men and women would give their right arm for the opportunity. Was it not to your satisfaction?" There's a beat as Hope reads her face. "I'm hearing complaints when I ought to be hearing gratitude."

"I didn't _want_ to do that."

"But you liked it."

"I would never ask you to do that." A gust of violent wind kicks up, capable of drowning out anything they might have said at that moment. "I don't know what you have planned for me but I don't want to do it." She stalks closer, eyes narrowed. "Commander Shepard has…endured…so much pain and anguish. She has _earned_ her accomplishments. I'm _not_ her. I never will be. If you gave a damn about me you wouldn't make me do these things. Do you know how tiring it is? Do you know how confusing? Each time you make me do something new everything that I have sorted goes into a tailspin. Why do you make me do things I should hate? Why do I like them?" She takes a handful of Hope's shirt and yanks her to a sitting position. Why did she sneak into a porn theater to watch asari vids near a year ago? Why do her feelings contradict her thoughts? Hope looks at her with an emotion Grace doesn't recognize. Grace's voice is clenched with feeling and she nearly confesses her love again. She swallows the words. She can't bear the thought of Hope's ridicule. Not now. It might push her to tears. "Why would you let me do something like that? It would kill me to watch you go to someone else."

"You'll have to do more difficult things," Hope's fingers glide along Grace's hand. "You'll have to know what Shepard likes. You'll have to know her preferences. You'll have to know how she fights, how she talks, how she fucks. Every shred is part of what makes her who she is. You'll have to know all of that and more and maybe it won't be enough."

Grace glares, her eyes glistening, the grip on Hope's shirt as firm as ever. Business. It's always logical, sorted business with her. "Why can't I remember anything?" Hope stares at her. Her eyes shift away from Grace's face. It's the first time she's looked away from her. Grace notes that it's significant in some way but is too tangled with emotion to make sense of it. "I won't be her." She lets Hope go. "Forget it. Forget all of this. I can't. I won't." Hope slumps back onto the bed. She straightens her shirt moments later. "Why am I not enough?"

Grace crashes to a sitting on the bed. She wipes at her eyes discreetly. Hope's hand touches on her back. Grace stares at the pathetic bright sleeves of her sweater. "You're meant for so much more. More than even you or I could conceive." Her hand rubs gently along her back. "We can't turn back. This surpasses us. Our wishes don't matter anymore."

Grace swallows the lump in her throat. She tries to speak, tries to tell Hope she can't continue but is unable to. Hope's lips brush along her neck, where some errant tear has escaped to. She rests her forehead on Grace's back. "I can't imagine how difficult it is to take so much into your mind. This was the last." Her fingers glide along her arm reassuringly. "I promise you won't have to do that ever again." Grace releases a long, shuddering breath.

* * *

The starboard observation deck is warmer than she remembers. Shepard stands at the window, gazing out at the sea of black. Stars throb with life. She's being observed. It's better to be here with a new face. It's easy to be here with a new start. Shame knots her stomach. She clenches her fists experimentally, happy she can ball them again, strike. Better. Everything will be better. She most of all.

"Your face is much improved since our last meeting, Shepard."

Shepard stiffens. The soft click of heels strike into the floor. She hates Samara's voice. Hates Samara's face. Blue hands clasp Shepard's face tightly, forcing her to look. Her eyes are so pale and blue she looks blind. She's flawless. Spotless. Shepard averts her eyes and gets a chuckle in response.

"It wasn't so long ago you couldn't take your eyes off me. Wanted me."

"Stop it," Shepard growls. A touch slides down her face. The woman turns away, returning to the couch, sitting. Her posture is relaxed. One leg crossed over the other. Hands twined demurely in her lap. Shepard tightens her jaw to keep it from quivering. She reminds herself that no matter her actions, regret is something she cannot allow. Questioning herself will get her nowhere. What's done is done.

Morinth wanted Shepard. Despite the scars she saw something linking them. Maybe she saw a killer, same as her. She was stunned to see Samara but Samara was a predator, prowling into the room, ready to end Morinth.

The fight was brutal. The apartment was ripped asunder, furniture battered and knocked over, blood everywhere. Samara found her adversary to be an exceptionally talented biotic, an unfeeling killer who has ended countless lives.

Shepard considered the woman who could murder a daughter for being born with a genetic disorder. There was an opportunity. Life is about taking opportunities. Samara promised to kill her when their suicide mission was complete. Shepard didn't want to take any chances. Yet there it was—the shock in Samara's eyes when Shepard betrayed her.

She nearly regretted it. For Samara to be surprised meant there was some part of her that believed she was noble and good. There was a part of the asari that thought there was something redeemable about her. But Shepard remembered her words. Samara didn't see the worlds in shades of grey. It was black and white. One must be ended or they must not. Personal feelings were irrelevant. Samara decided long ago that Shepard must die. Samara was a killer. Unfeeling and merciless. Like her. Like Morinth. All of them just reflections of each other.

 _Shepard strikes first, taking advantage of the standoff between Morinth and Samara. The first blow collides solidly. Samara wipes blood from her mouth, momentarily dazed. The next instant she understands. Shepard's thrown onto her back, the heel of Samara's boot nearly crushing her windpipe. Shepard rolls away, jumping to her feet. Her foot finds the asari's stomach; she follows the assault with a knee to the face._

 _Samara hardly makes a sound. Shepard admires that, even as Samara hurls her to the wall. Shepard hears things crack, tastes blood in her mouth as Samara glides through the air, punches a fist through the wall where Shepard had been only an instant before._

 _Samara's initial attack against Shepard was devastating. It's taken a lot out of her, made her slow and disoriented. She's never had an adversary like the justicar before and it shows. Samara's fist pounds into her face, once, twice, a crunch is followed by a geyser of blood that erupts from her nose, another punch and teeth come loose, her jaw unhinging._

 _Shepard launches into the air, slamming biotic energy into the ground, blowing them all back. Morinth tries to enter the fray but a deadly look from Shepard keeps her in place. Samara flies back and Shepard charges, biotic energy and adrenaline forcing her to move through the pain._

 _Samara is remarkable. A goddess of death. She rips one of the swords from the wall with deadly elegance. Shepard thought they were ceremonial but as it slices into her arm, tears into her stomach, Shepard learns with excruciating agony how wrong she was._

 _Morinth makes commentary but Shepard doesn't hear any of it. She dodges a swipe, springs to her feet, grapples Samara's arm, breaks it. The asari finally cries out. The sword falls. Shepard presses her advantage, knocking her feet out from under her, straddling her, bleeding all over her. Samara judges her. Those icy eyes loathe her. Shepard doesn't have a snappy quip. She's dizzy and losing consciousness, losing strength. She grips Samara's head and with the last of her reserves, twists it savagely. Her neck snaps. Shepard's fear drains with Samara's life and with it, she worries, some part of her humanity._

 _She slumps away from Samara, her nose bent and throbbing. She can't speak. The sounds she makes are ugly. Morinth looks down at the both of them blankly before kneeling to pull the clothes from Samara's body._

 _Shepard stares wide-eyed at the dead asari, naked and broken, lifeless. Shepard's eyes are dry, unblinking, riveted on her carcass as Morinth dresses._

 _Morinth drags her away. Blood runs down Shepard's face, her arms, her stomach. She shouldn't have left her fucking armor behind. Morinth's mouth moves, smiles, her voice shifting: heavier, somber, urgent when they spot Miranda hovering near the Purgatory entrance, clearly alarmed at Shepard's condition._

Morinth presses her back to the cushion. "Having regrets? I thought you were bolder than that."

There is something contemptuous to her tone and Shepard hates her, hates herself for bringing the viper into their midst. What kind of a woman can kill another and take over her life? What kind of woman can live that kind of life? What kind of woman can forgive it? Can keep the secret? What must it be to live a lie? How exhausting. How exhilarating. The galaxy's greatest prank.

Shepard tells herself Samara deserved her death. The fight was fair. Shepard won. If Samara had taken her it would have meant something. It would have meant she was wrong. It would have meant she didn't deserve to live; she wasn't fit to lead. But Samara was taken. Samara died. It's okay. Survival of the fittest. The Reapers are still coming. She's the only one who can stop them. She needs to live. Even if she isn't sure she should, even if she isn't sure that she wants to.

"Don't talk like her in here," Shepard says. She sits next to her on the couch. Morinth smiles. Shepard drapes her arm over the back of the couch and slides closer, looking at her. Morinth's smiles are easy and inviting. Samara was aloof and judgmental. She taunted her about Liara. "It's remarkable." Shepard touches Morinth's face. She feels the same. The strong jaw. The cutting lines to her face. Shepard trails her thumb along the curves and Morinth shifts her face as necessary, as if putting on a demonstration for a new, top of the line product. "You're remarkable."

"As are you, Shepard. I never imagined a human could be so daring. Watching you kill my mother was…exhilarating. She was after me for a long time. I always knew it'd come down to just her or me. Life is like that, you know. There are some people that can't coexist."

Is that true…? "Is that what you really think?"

"You did the right thing. Deep down, you know it too. Someone who denies herself the pleasure of living shouldn't go on existing. Only the strong survive. In life, people like us are at the top of the food chain. We shouldn't feel guilty about that. We should be proud." There's a beat. "Don't worry. No one will ever find out about my mother. I'll be able to carry out the mission as well as she would have. Better."

Shepard leans into the couch and feels herself relax. For days she's been wound tight. Samara was a threat. She was eliminated. She has a new face. She's reborn. She's been given a new opportunity, just as Morinth has.

It's a fresh start. Everyone deserves a fresh start. Sometimes things need to be replaced. Sometimes that's the only way it gets better.


	11. Butcher

Mess Sergeant Rupert Gardner tears open a few ramen spice packets, dumping them into the bubbling grey sludge in the pot. Gardner's arm strains as he stirs the meal. It looks like a mixture of oatmeal and cement. He dips a finger into the stew, swearing at how it burns. He winces at the preliminary taste; the flavor is worse than the smell, like spicy chalk.

Shepard never got the ingredients he asked for. She was checked out of their initial and only conversation before Gardner even finished his first sentence. Now he's got a ship full of ass-wipes telling him his food stinks. Worse yet, there's a clogged toilet in the men's and a leaking shower faucet in the women's. The damned AI aboard the _Normandy_ never fails to remind him of all the little things that need doing and doesn't leave anything to chance—quickly warning him when there may be female staff in the shower area and barring him from going in to make repairs. He can't remember the last time he saw an actual woman naked.

Gardner sighs inwardly and looks through the pathetic collection of ingredients he has left. Wilted, floppy celery and a can of peaches older than most matriarchs. The matriarch in the observatory isn't bad. Eyes are a bit spooky. No one Cerberus should be working with but he knows what rung he's at on the ladder. Shepard hasn't acknowledged his existence in months and Miranda is as unfeeling a woman as ever. He can't knock the way she fills out her uniform, though.

He scratches the stubble on his face, glancing at Kelly Chambers who's positioned herself at the counter. He gives the stew another few solid stirs, feeling his bicep start to burn. "Come back later. Today's fine cuisine's not done yet."

"We'll be touching down on Zorya at any minute," Kelly tells him, her voice practiced and even. He doesn't turn around. "Zaeed asked that you save him a few servings. He'll be hungry after 'killing that nasty son of a bitch' he said—though his language was a bit more colorful." Gardner smiles. Chambers' duties seem as tedious as his. "And Kasumi asked that you not use her instant noodles." They look at the empty silver packets, several of the dried noodles having fallen to the floor. "She's warned you about it before."

"She'll live," he grouses.

Bunch of no-good spoiled soldiers, as if he doesn't have anything better to do. Now they're acting like he's running a goddamn restaurant. At least they're human. He joined Cerberus because of the batarians. He was expecting to work with humans, to give humanity an edge. He's never seen as many tentacles or frogs as he has recently. He wanted to stand for something. These days, more often than not, he has to settle for standing in front of a stove. He rips open another ramen package in frustration.

* * *

X8. It. The clone. She. 'Grace'. She hasn't had as many identities as Hope has. Where Hope uses aliases as a one-way pass to her goals, the clone is fixated on having only one identity: that of an unassuming other. Hope wonders if she pushed the clone too hard too fast. There is so much work to do. If it wouldn't cripple the clone, she'd have her working around the clock. They have to be ready. Hope won't do the clone any favors by taking it easy on her.

The clone's breath is warm along her skin. She guides Hope's shirt up, planting kisses up her stomach. She's rebellious lately. Hope has been letting her get away with too much, but beating down what is surely Shepard's rancorous temperament would be a disservice. If Hope does her job properly, the clone will be no different from Shepard. Hope will be the one taking orders.

Once the clone is secure, confident, commanding, what will she do with Hope? She'll betray her. It won't matter how she helped the clone. It will be forgotten and she'll become expendable, just as she did to _Ms. Brooks._ The clone has stopped moving and Hope glances down. The clone remains dressed and on all fours, studying the three-inch scar along her abdomen, wider than the ninjato. Kai Leng didn't bother being careful taking it out. Bruising remains along her sides and ribs.

Hope has never taken such a beating. She's lucky to have escaped with her life. What happens if Kai Leng comes after them again? What happens if Grace—'Grace'—the clone—isn't prepared? The clone eases her thumb along the raised flesh, causing Hope to hold her breath.

They're in another safe house, this one on Therum. It's smaller than what they're used to. They have little room for privacy. There's a bed, a couch and a television that doesn't work. The air conditioning is functional and Hope is grateful for small mercies. Gra—the clone asks her what she's thinking of. The question comes more often recently and Hope has been dangerously close to answering on occasion. She blames the exhaustion, the constant moving and traveling. Nearly a year of it will take a toll on any person. Being hunted by Cerberus is a difficult life.

Hope will not tell Gra—the clone of her former life. It isn't her business and anything the clone has on her might compromise everything—her, most importantly. She has spent the majority of her life trusting nobody. What is it like for the sad individuals that think others can be trusted? Are they happy? Do they feel achingly tired as she does at times? When the tables turn, how do they cope? Do they just die?

"I'm thinking of you," Hope says. It elicits a smile from the clone, "and Shepard." A small line marks her brow. "I know how you like to look at me and touch me." The clone moves over her, palming her face, her contact too delicate. "I want you to fuck me the way Jane would." The clone's hand doesn't fall away. It remains. Her hazel eyes shift to green. "I want you to," she repeats softly.

Hope has heard stories of Shepard's sexual prowess. Her fixation on chatty asari women did and didn't do her service. Shepard isn't shy about kissing and telling. The clone does a lovely job. She treats Hope as if she means something, as if it means anything, as if they weren't just tools to one another to get to a mutual destination. It's confusing. Detrimental. Hope curses herself for not investing in a vibrator. Now she has a scar on her body that will never go away. One incurred for the clone. She thinks of the other clones, all of which were malformed in one way or another. None but Grace were viable, though X3 was somewhat close. There was talk of cobbling her together with pieces from the other clones. Somehow Grace is perfect. She only needs to be led. X8, Hope reminds herself. "I'm going to start calling you Jane."

"No," the clone says, eyes wide, almost fearfully. "No, please." Her hand wraps around Hope's fist. "Do you know what that will do to me?" It will harden her. It will possibly push her away. Only moments ago Hope was determined and now her resolve is waning. "I feel so confused," she confesses softly.

Hope brings a hand to her face. The clone half-closes her eyes, turning her face so her lips brush Hope's palm. "You have an identity. A worthy one. Some people don't have that. Some people have nothing." She's never held on to identities for very long but taking X8 will guarantee that nothing in her life will be constant or stable, safe. "You _are_ Shepard. What you've read… what you've seen…" she doesn't know how to explain it. "You have to trust me."

The words usually pass her lips with little problem. Listening to herself, she can detect no irregularities or hiccups, any catches that give her away. Yet the declaration leaves her feeling as if she's covered in oil. She isn't lying to the clone. So what if she were? What's she supposed to tell her? That she was created for the Butcher of Torfan? It should be that easy. It will be, Hope tells herself. In time. Once she's ready. She's been delaying it for nearly a year now. If the clone can't handle it, she'll be useless to her.

"I do trust you," the clone says. Hope doesn't know how long she's been holding her breath. It burns in her lungs. The clone says the words naturally, with no sense of irony. What kind of trusting creature is she? "But I'm not Jane." Hope sits up and nods in disagreement, taking hold of the hoodie she wears and unzipping it. Hope slides it off her shoulders. "I don't want to. Not like that."

"You might like it," Hope says. Their faces touch. Her cheek is soft. Her breath is short. "Show me," she starts to peel the tanktop away. "You need to get used to it. You may as well start with me."

"Why can't I have anything that's my own?"

"I'm not yours, 'Jane'. And you'll never be mine. One day you'll realize that and you'll be relieved. You'll use it when it's convenient. You'll use it to excuse your actions." Her words halt when the clone takes a hold of her face tightly. Her eyes are narrowed, pulsing green and blue. Hope wants to look away. Before she can think further, before she can blink she's been flipped onto her stomach, her pants ripped away. Cold air slaps Hope's skin as her shirt is literally torn from her.

Shepard's arm thrusts between her legs, her hand cupping her mound. Another hand wraps angrily around her throat, yanking her up brutally against her body. Hope can't get any air into her lungs. Shepard bites her shoulder, leaves a mark, shoves her digits inside before forcing Hope down on the bed, ass in the air, shoulders touching the pillow.

The clone shifts enough of her clothing down to grind her sex and fingers up to the knuckle forcefully against Hope's. It's so markedly different from what Hope has experienced with her that she cries out. It makes sense. It's Jane Shepard. This is Jane Shepard. The clone is Jane Shepard's shadow—for the time being.

Shepard overpowers her easily. If Hope wanted to fight back she wouldn't stand a chance. She can't engage her in physical combat. Not ever. She makes a note of it. No one has ever been brazen enough to treat her this way in a sexual context. As if she were nothing. Hope breathes Jane's name. It's easier that way. It creates a distinction. Not that there is one, really. It encourages the clone whose reservations have gone. She fucks her with a rigorous, angry focus. Hope listens to her aching, raspy breaths. The world disappears. The bed shakes. It's like they're other people. People who have vigorous, bruising sex, who bite and scratch until marks are left. Hope's legs are weak and unsteady.

The hot aggression makes her ribs and body ache. Hope realizes she wasn't as recovered as she thought. When she comes it's with a hand tightly wound around her neck, Shepard's hard body pressed to her back. The ensuing flood of ecstasy is like a betrayal. Hope doesn't know why she thinks that. It's the same person with a different approach.

"Sometimes I really fucking hate you," Shepard growls.

Everything is still. Then Shepard releases her neck, a hand sliding down to cup her breast hard. She shoves Hope away but is almost instantly on her, trailing kisses that are more like bites down her back when she arrives at the other end where the ninjato came out. Shepard stops and Grace returns, her fingers careful and stroking where earlier they pumped mercilessly inside of her. A kiss is pressed to the scar tenderly and Hope closes her eyes, unable to stop her maddening heartbeat. Grace rests her forehead on Hope's back and exhales shakily. Hope reaches back, runs her hand along Grace's arm, taut and trembling.

Hope's sorry but she's not sure for whom.

* * *

Zorya is sweltering and sticky. Perspiration begins to bead on Shepard's face as soon as her feet hit the ground. Lush vegetation teems with chittering, chirping life, choking the landscape. The whole planet is like this, she's told. Fuck. No wonder it looks green from orbit. Zaeed warns the group to keep an eye out for ambushes, but Shepard's hands are full just trying to avoid tripping over vines. She resists the urge to shoot at the pyjaks that scamper around them as if looking for opportunities to steal something, or throw feces at them. Fucking vermin.

EDI has patched them into the Blue Suns communications channel. They listen to Vido bark out orders to his people as they make their way through the overgrown terrain. The guy sounds like a jerkoff but Zaeed hasn't been forthcoming about why he's after him. Shepard figures she's lost count of the people she's killed. Killing someone for a member of her team seems honorable enough—more so than blowing their brains out for looking at her the wrong way anyway.

She may have initially distrusted Zaeed but the old man's all right. He's with Cerberus for credits. She gets that. And he's working for her. They push forward, seeing the factory in the distance where the Blue Suns have holed up and are holding the workers hostage. She regrets not bringing a water bottle. She's dehydrated and her head is pounding.

Fungal life is as abundant as any other kind here. Oversized mushrooms, many larger than her head, sprout wildly from the ground and trees. Zaeed points out deadly spore sacs as they go, which they warily give a wide berth. Shepard's spent a lot of time in space ships, space stations, but not much time on planets that resemble tropical jungles. Giant palm trees stretch overhead, the giant billowy palm leaves casting shadows that shield them from the grueling, yellow light of the sun. The rare shaft of light that manages to pierce the canopy illuminates air that is thick with spores, insects and dust. The squad comes across abandoned crates and vehicles, rusted and rotting, foliage growing out of them as the jungle lays claim to them. Spiders largers than tarantulas climb the trees lethargically, seemingly unconcerned about the intruders tromping through their territory. Shepard frowns, warning the group. "Wait till you see the snakes," Zaeed tells her.

Fucking great.

When they come across two dead bodies Kasumi tsks, M-9 Tempest held in anticipation of any attack. Zaeed shakes his head. "Shot in the back and left to rot. That's definitely Vido's style."

"An enemy is an enemy. Doesn't matter how you get the job done," Shepard says. Zaeed fixes her with his glassy eye, the lines that cut a permanent scowl into his face burying deeper. "Let's just go take the son of a bitch out," she's tired of Zorya already. All she wants is to remove her helmet and wipe the sweat from her face. No, take a cleansing shower. First they have to get off this rock. "Let's move."

He nods and they move on. The Blue Suns are everywhere, moving in coordinated packs. As her unit dives for cover, Shepard's heart beats with excitement. There is nothing like the thrill of battle—only an exceptional fuck can match it. She hasn't taken Kasumi anywhere before but she thought if they were going to be breaking into a factory, a master on infiltration couldn't hurt. Besides, if Kasumi wants her help getting that graybox, she's going to have to earn it.

Shepard yanks the M-6 Carnifex from its holster and takes a few shots, nailing a Blue Sun in the arm. Kasumi, beside her one instant, is gone the next. She appears behind the injured Blue Sun, taking a dagger from who knows where and burying it in the crevice between armor and helmet. The mercenary collapses lifelessly to the ground and Kasumi's soon back to where she was, grinning. "Nice trick," Shepard says.

"Thanks, Shep," she cloaks with another grin, "but we should probably chat less and kill more."

"Agreed." Shepard doesn't know where she goes. Fancy trick, that. Here one moment. Gone the next. Seems convenient but she's never cared for infiltrators, for subtlety. She likes the visceral violence of a fight. Over the gunfire she can hear Zaeed laughing almost maniacally, screaming about 'sons of bitches'. The accuracy of his shots, the mods on the sniper rifle reduce the Blue Suns shields and heads to nothing. She holsters the Carnifex and removes the M22-Eviscerator from her back. She hones in on a group of Suns, and catapults to them on a biotic wave. The world blurs around her as she shifts forward in space, the moment stretching like a rubber band, knocking the mercs back before blasting them at point blank range with the shotgun.

Blood mists her helmet and she smiles, satisfied. The sandy ground greedily soaks the blood in. There's a Blue Sun trying to crawl away, wheezing for mercy. Kasumi and Zaeed fall in step next to her and Shepard walks slowly behind the mercenary. Some medi-gel could probably patch him up. She has some on hand. She goes to him and puts her foot on his back, pinning him to the ground before aligning the barrel with the back of his head and pulling the trigger.

Meat chunks hit her helmet and hardsuit. Her smile remains gently on her lips. Mercy is for suckers.

* * *

Grace takes too long in the scalding water of the shower before toweling off. For some minutes she sits on the toilet, tearing her hands through her hair before standing. She paces the best she can in a space that is only wide enough for her to stretch her arms to her sides but not to the front and back.

Grace wipes the mirror with the side of her curled fist and stares at her reflection. Commander Jane Shepard. Hope called her that and she… She punches the mirror before she can stop herself. The glass crunches, spider-cracks rippling throughout. Her reflection is distorted and Grace looks down at her bleeding fist. Just a few scratches. She washes her hands, rubbing where they're cut. It isn't enough to leave a scar.

She thinks of her fingers thrusting into Hope, digging into her flesh, curling her hair around her fist, turning Hope's face so she couldn't see as she fucked her senseless. Senselessly, maybe. Shame burns her cheeks, worsening when she feels a familiar throbbing at her center. Once again she crashes to a sitting on the toilet, face in her hands. How could she enjoy something like that? It seemed… hostile, angry, like some self-serving punishment. Degrading and selfish. The only time she turned Hope around was to hold her in place, grind herself against her mouth. She didn't give a fuck about what Hope was feeling, only doing what _she_ wanted. Why would Hope ask her to do that? Maybe she knew what was in store. Maybe she preferred it to their more tender unions. How could she say Shepard's name like that?

It's all right if she's Shepard. She's Shepard. Commander Jane Shepard. Grace dwells on the memory longer, trying to analyze it but is flushed with a hot, physical response instead of any real understanding.

Her face is fire. The insides of her thighs are slick now and she stands, yanks toilet paper free to wipe herself off before quickly dressing. The air outside of the bathroom is immensely cooler but there's nowhere she can be by herself to think. Hope has dressed and made the bed. She sits on the couch, the laptop on the much shorter coffee table ahead of her. Grace twines her fingers nervously and picks up the hoodie from the floor, sitting next to her. She doesn't know what to say and distractedly plays with the material of the hoodie resting on her lap.

"What happened to your hand?" Hope looks at the computer when she asks, her tone impatient, absent.

"The mirror in the bathroom fell."

"I didn't hear it." She takes Grace's hand, looks at it and lets it go.

The lie is pathetic. Too pathetic for Hope to call her out on. "I wanted to say I'm sorry." That's a start anyway and she hopes it allays any ill that Hope may be feeling. Grace is left the same: uncomfortable and gutted, hot.

"For what?" She presses a few keys on the keyboard.

Grace wonders if Hope is so indifferent. "For… for all of it, I guess. For what I said. I didn't mean it. I don't… even know where it came from," she finds her fingers clasping together again and she forces her hands to separate. "I don't feel that way. I could never hate you."

A smirk touches her lips. She looks at Grace then, temporarily forgetting about the computer. "You gave me exactly what I asked for and I enjoyed it. In fact… what we did before paled in comparison." Grace frowns, unsure of how to react to the words. Her chest is beginning to heave. Hope brushes her thumb along her brow. "Don't frown, your face will freeze that way." Her hand falls away and she stands, leaving the couch to look out the blinds of the window. "I think you've watched too many vids. You think what you see in that sentimental garbage is what adults do but it isn't. What you did is who you are. There's no sense in feeling guilty about it."

"I don't think Shepard would do that with Liara T'Soni."

Hope turns sharply, her brown eyes hot and then dampening. "I am not Liara T'Soni. And what do you know? Asari invented kinky sex. A few mind melds and you think you've got it all figured out? If only it were that easy."

"I know what I _feel_ ," Grace snaps. Hope turns her back to her and rubs her forehead. She sighs softly. Grace gets to her feet and stands beside her. It's strange that she's afraid to touch her, to be rejected after everything they just did. But that was for Shepard. That wasn't for her. Or was it? "I need some fresh air," she says softly.

"Take the gun," she crosses her arms. "And be careful."

Grace stands beside her. She reaches out to brush the hair back from her face but Hope wrenches away. Grace stares at her. She wonders if she could hate her. Then she takes the Paladin from the coffee table and exits.

* * *

Grace is sweating the instant she leaves the safe house. At a scorching 59 degrees Celsius, Grace doesn't see the reasoning behind wearing the hoodie, outside of preventing sunburn and shrouding her identity. As far as planets go, Therum doesn't rank in terms of beauty. Home to more than a few volcanoes, the land is mountainous and rocky. Unclaimed Prothean ruins dot the landscape. Grace would like to explore them sometime, try to make sense of the mosaic of destruction that fills her mind. Maybe she should read Liara T'Soni's papers. She's some kind of Prothean expert, isn't she?

Grace tries not to think about her, returning her attention to the landscape. The locations that have been settled are more habitable but it's a mining planet. The air has a sour sort of smell. Factories pump polluting chemicals into the skies. It makes for stunning vistas that burn in all hues.

Hope made some offhanded remarks about mining facilities upon their arrival, the abuses suffered within at some plants, and then moved on to the 'Shepard Nostalgia Tour', as Grace has taken to calling their travels. Therum was once overrun by the geth, led by Saren to hunt down Matriarch Benezia's daughter, Liara T'Soni. This was the planet where they met. All Grace has is a flash of some containment field with a much younger-looking, panicked Liara being held afloat. It's only a scrap, a splinter of a memory, gleaned from the meld with Sha'ira. It's all she has. That and a warm feeling that can't be attributed to the murderous heat of Therum.

She wipes the sweat from her face and moves through the grated walkways that clank with her every step. Clumps of individuals, miners, maybe, from the Eldfell-Ashland mining facilities, watch her. They have facilities in Zorya too, if she's not mistaken. She's distracted, her thoughts having wandered once more to Hope and Liara to pay them too much attention. She ducks into a small, dilapidated establishment, hoping to find some reprieve from the heat.

The building looks to be a seedy bar. It's dirty with boarded-up windows and a counter lined with worn stools. The bartender is a grizzled man with a mop of brown hair and a stained towel slung over his shoulder. He cuts into a lemon with a butcher knife. Some of the patrons turn to look at her but quickly lose interest. The bar isn't air conditioned. She's parched and moves to the bar. It's riddled with bullet holes, part of the counter shaved off. "Water," she says.

The bartender cuts another lemon in half, squeezing it into a grimy glass with his massive hand. She thinks of Floyd and Volkova and Santos but buries the thought. Hope tells her memories will lead her astray but without them Grace is lost. As long as she remembers all she's ever done is flounder. "You want water? Go somewhere else," he says. "Talk to me when you want a real drink."

She tastes salt on her lips. Sweat makes her shirt and hair cling to her. "Then get me a real drink," she smiles but her words are short and enunciated. She doesn't have time for idiots trying to show off.

He stabs the knife into the cutting board, fixing her with a mean smile. "Sure thing, Princess."

"It's Grace. Asshole," she mutters the last under her breath.

Seemingly indifferent to her preferred title, he slinks to the back room. Some of the patrons that previously lined the bar stand and exit. Grace sighs. She wonders how long this kind of life can continue. She doesn't have a home. She's constantly shuffled from spaceship to spaceship, shuttle to shuttle. Shepard grew up a Spacer kid. Is this what it felt like? Maybe, Grace thinks, she grew up with Shepard too. Maybe they know one another. Has Hope met Shepard? Has Hope done those things with her before? Is that why she prefers them? Grace again thinks back to the brutal coupling, to the intense satisfaction she felt, the small waves of pleasure still seeming to course through her, making her body hum.

The bartender returns with a drink, slapping the greasy tumbler down next to her. Grace picks it up. The liquid is a smoky purple and blue. She has a sip, eyes wandering behind the bar. There's trail of red on the floor, snaking around the corner into the other room.

Her drink is sour with a hint of sweetness beneath. A chalky smell fills her nostrils. The confusing amalgam of emotions she experienced before slowly taper off. Her head is fuzzy, her vision shifting from focused to blurry. The bartender's towel is spotted red. This is wrong. This is all wrong. She slams the drink on the counter, wiping her mouth.

Six soldiers in white and gold hardsuits enter, orange crests stamped to their chests. They have the builds of the miners she passed earlier. They're heavily armed. She straightens. The room tilts as if being shifted by the tides. The barrel of a gun touches the back of her head. The vibrations of the contact move through her. Is she hallucinating? Her mouth goes dry.

"The Illusive Man wants her alive," one of them says, his voice electronic and unidentifiable, echoing. Who's the Illusive Man? "But subject is considered armed and—"

Grace acts. She lifts an arm, tendrils of blue flowing around her. Her body bristles as she unleashes an explosive shockwave that tears the floor apart, blowing the soldiers around in all directions. She shifts sharply to the right, anticipating the bullet the bartender fires and leaping onto the counter, snatching the butcher knife from the cutting board. A wave of nausea assaults her and she wavers unsteadily. The soldiers are scrambling to their feet, the bartender lining up his next shot. Grace tries to focus, pulls the gun from him and tackles him to the ground, tumbles maybe, she isn't sure. The bartender is grappling at her face. She buries the knife into his neck and holds it there, pushing herself to a sitting. He gurgles but he no longer matters. A glance back reveals there's no exit from the small room. A relatively fresh corpse is huddled in the corner.

This was a setup. This was all a setup. Mind racing, she forces herself to stay calm and keep low, shrouding herself in a barrier that pulses erratically. Why didn't she put on a hardsuit? She should have known. She should have learned that there are enemies everywhere.

She decides she'll kill them all. It won't be difficult. It might even be fun.

One of them speaks. "Surrender, Grace. You have nowhere to go, no one to turn to. Your accomplice, Hope Lilium, is dead." Grace freezes, her blood running cold, a fresh wintry sweat springing to her skin. She's intensely dizzy, her heart barreling out of her chest. She shakes. "We got her on Bekenstein."

What? She tries to peer out but gets a hail of bullets in response. She can't stop shaking. The blue of her biotics flushes the room. She needs to keep it together. Keep it together. Keep it together. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. The bartender makes a drowning sound and Grace absently twists the knife, ending him.

She forces slow, steady breaths. She survived the batarian and turian a year ago, without knowing how to fight, without biotic training, in much worse condition than she is now. The drink contained a powerful sedative but she barely had a sip. She can push through it. These men are after her. These … people think Hope is dead. Must have been part of the group that went after her. Part of the group that Grace vowed to tear apart. Cold sweat runs down her face, tapping onto the filthy floor.

She decides she won't kill them all right away. She'll keep one of them alive for awhile.

* * *

The factory is on fire. Zaeed is a son of a bitch. A goddamned crazy son of a bitch. Shepard can't stop grinning. He may have forced her hand but the plan is brilliant. Vido's lost his advantage. As pissed as she should be, Shepard can't say she would have waited for approval from a commanding officer to put the plan into motion. The element of surprise is everything.

"Weren't we supposed to rescue the workers from the Blue Suns?" Kasumi asks lightly, but she's audibly annoyed. "I like a challenge as much as anyone else but I don't like to run _into_ fires." She pulls back her cloak some. "It gets hot."

Shepard yanks her helmet off and wipes her face with the palm of her hand before slipping it on again. The heat of before has become unbearable and she is now literally dripping with sweat. Zaeed looks like a mad dog, as if he hasn't noticed that the very air is sizzling. He's already running ahead, looking back at them impatiently. "Are you two going to stand around braiding each other's hair all day? We need to get moving!"

Shepard and Kasumi exchange looks, trotting up to him. He's already emptying clips into approaching Blue Suns, before fixing Kasumi and Shepard with a contemptuous stare. "Watch the attitude, Zaeed," Shepard pulls out the M-6 Carnifex. "You're not the only one who can hit a target between the eyes." Another explosion rattles the factory and they quickly adjust to maintain their balance. Blue Suns bodies litter the walkway into the factory. Shepard rubs her temple.

"I have been working at this for twenty years. And in case you forgot, that was part of the deal for coming to work with Cerberus," Zaeed gets in her face and Shepard cocks her head, not bothering to step back. "Cerberus bastards may not know the meaning of honor. I don't. But you're supposed to," he taps her chest piece with the M-96 Mattock, "and we're going to go after Vido and if we don't get him I'll have your goddamned head."

Shepard cocks her fist back, slugging him hard with a fist wrapped in biotic energy. He stumbles, nearly falling but catching himself on a rusty crate. Shepard marches over, glaring down at him. "I hear why you want to get Vido. Hell, revenge is one of my favorite pastimes. But in case you forgot, I'm the one in charge. You answer to _me_ , Zaeed. And if you try another crazy stunt without my say so I'll finish what Vido started and blow your fucking brains out. Same goes if you even _think_ of threatening me again. Are we _clear_?" His gaze is deadly, the man practically shaking with rage. "I asked you a question, Zaeed. Do we go get Vido or are we going to waste more time on this bullshit?"

Zaeed rises menacingly. He checks the chamber of the Mattock, his words tight. "We're goddamned clear. Let's get going. We're about to lose all the advantage we had."

"Let's move," Shepard snarls. They go through the factory, taking out Blue Suns. There's a whole army of them. She wonders how pieces of shit like Vido can command the loyalty of so many men. Is it charisma? Is it ruthlessness? What makes someone follow a leader? What makes a leader? And how does a leader live with themself if they can use their followers as pawns? She dismisses the thoughts, not wanting to form sympathy for the Blue Suns, preferring to shoot them instead. She's starting to have fun, the anger at Zaeed waning as battle lust takes over. Her happy haze is disrupted when they hear shouting overhead. They stop at the entry of the factory building. The sun is blinding, reducing the screaming man on the upper bridge to shadows.

"Help! We're trapped! We can't get to the gas valves to shut them off. The whole place is going to blow!"

"Too bad," Zaeed says, opening the door and striding inside. Shepard looks at him and back at the worker. She can't see his face. She can only see Zaeed's, marred by betrayal, marked by age and a fixation on revenge. "I don't give a damn about them," he says, anticipating her question. "Only took this job to get to Vido. You've seen how I fight, Shepard. Once Vido's taken care of I'll have a clear head. No distractions. I'll put your kill count to shame. Seems to me like something you could use against the Collectors. None of these poor sons of bitches will give you anything but thanks. And what can you do with thanks?"

Shepard nods, decided. "Agreed," she follows him in, holstering the pistol and retrieving the shotgun. "Kasumi!" she's standing outside, looking up at the factory worker who's still shrieking for help. "Move your ass!" Kasumi glides in and moves ahead, noticeably angry but it doesn't matter.

It's remarkable how she can hear the shrill yells of the factory workers as they move through the factory. How's it possible? It shouldn't be possible. Is she imagining it? Hallucinating it? A fresh start. This was meant to be a fresh start. People have called her ruthless before. People don't get a title like the Butcher of Torfan without good cause. She sent a lot of good men and women to their deaths to prove a point. To make sure that the batarians _never_ thought of going after a human colony again. The ends justify the means. Only cowards don't agree.

The inside of the factory is cool but Shepard's sweating. Despite the ferocious activity of battle, she can't get warm. She hears them shrieking. Her trigger finger is tiring. She keeps glancing back but she can't see anything but the darkness. They all dive behind a hard collection of pipes, gunshots ringing all around them. She removes her helmet again to swab away the sweat, breathing anxiously.

"You all right, Shep?" Kasumi asks. "Getting shot at is never fun but you don't usually go pale."

"I'm fine," she says harshly. They left the screaming factory worker minutes ago. Was it minutes ago? Was it longer? Time loses meaning during firefights. She closes her eyes, licking the sweat from her upper lip. "You've gotta go back." She sees the question from the way Kasumi parts her lips. "I have to help Zaeed catch Vido. I need to do this." _I need to keep my word, somehow_. "But you need to get to those factory workers." A fresh start. A fresh start. Everyone deserves a fresh start. Maybe with that start comes difficult decisions. The fight will be harder without Kasumi but she doesn't need those factory workers' lives on her conscience. Not if something can be done about it.

Kasumi ducks her head as another shot pokes a hole through her hood. "Are you _sure_?"

"The area should be clear. Take care of the factory workers and rendezvous with me and Zaeed outside. That's an order, Kasumi. Hustle." Kasumi gives her a firm nod and Shepard can breathe again. She watches her cloak and run into the darkness. She puts the helmet on again and takes an unsteady breath. Satisfied with the air getting into her lungs she snaps forward to a group of Blue Suns with a charge, feeling invigorated again, alive. Her conscience is clear. Now the real fun begins.

* * *

The CLOSED sign has been hanging on the bar door for several hours. The floor is sticky and slick with dark puddles of blood. Soldiers lay contorted at awkward angles on the floor. Most are unrecognizable but there are a few who only have missing limbs, rivers of blood have drained out of them leaving their faces pale, eyes wide with fright.

The room is beginning to smell of piss and shit.

Grace is drenched in blood. The remaining soldier, the one who offered her an ultimatum earlier, is strapped to a chair, stripped of his armor. Grace shot out his shins so he wouldn't try to run while she tied him down with some rope she found in the back room. She gathers it was intended for her. She's planted a stool in front of him. His face is white. He's disoriented but his yowling has stopped. Now he sweats, his arms fastened to the armrests of the chair.

He isn't a pussy, she'll give him that. The CAT6 Academy taught her how to torture. Grace doesn't like it. It seems redundant in a way. It's perverse and ugly. Floyd and Volkova had a talent for it. The most hardened tend to break within an hour. It's been significantly longer for this man. Some of his teeth are at his feet, along with the needle nosed pliers Grace used to extract them. She made sure not to take the ones that would make him incomprehensible. She drove the pliers into his mouth and twisted emotionlessly, smiling at the pain he caused himself when he involuntarily jerked his legs.

She's stuffed his mouth with the bartender's bloody shoulder rag to keep him quiet and set up a few items on the table beside her. She returns the needle nosed pliers, adding it to a collection with a wrench, a hammer and a knife. His eyes are blue but the white in one of them is bloodshot and going red. It weeps constantly. Now and then his eyes dart to the dead soldiers. A scan of the emblem on the uniform reveals that it's Cerberus. Grace nearly forgot about them. Hope's only ever mentioned them in passing and the last time she was asked to do a pickup job for them she and her squad had been ambushed by the Collectors. It slipped her mind. Maybe she blocked it. It seems inexcusable, sloppy. Hope would be ashamed. _She's_ ashamed.

"Tell me what happened to Hope," she asks gently. She's happy to keep her voice steady. What she really wants is to snap his neck. The man rocks in the chair, thrashing futilely. She's been asking the question for hours. "Go on. Don't drag this out any longer than it needs to." He squeezes his eyes shut. Grace picks up the knife, and slides it under his nail. Another stifled scream. Blood pours over his hands and the knife, onto her hands. She draws out the knife and starts on another finger. He bites back his cry this time, his eyes seeming to roll back into his head. Once more she pulls the knife back. She takes his face lightly. "Stay with me," she says. His chest rises and falls rapidly. "Tell me what happened to Hope."

The soldier doesn't respond. "Look at me." He won't look at her. "Look at me while you have eyes to look at me." And still he doesn't look at her. She picks up the hammer and pushes it against the ball of his eye. He's getting desperate again. "Are you ready to talk?" He bows his head, making pathetic sounds. But he doesn't nod in agreement. She pushes the hammer into his eye slowly, the pressure mounting until it eventually erupts. White goo cradles the head of the hammer. Another shriek and then he's choking.

Grace watches him for a few moments before removing the bloody towel. He vomits all over himself. Grace looks at the hole where his clear blue eye used to be and she's afraid she'll vomit too. It would be easy to stop. This is awful. Despicable. But these men tried to kill Hope. Tried to kill her. She has a job to finish. The ends justify the means. When he's finished retching, Grace stuffs the towel back in his mouth. "You still have one eye left. Are you ready to talk or do you want to lose another one?" His eyebrow furrows, blood running down his face. "If I remove the towel will you talk?"

He doesn't respond. Grace gives him the benefit of the doubt. She removes the towel and he starts to scream for help. Grace quickly replaces the towel. She takes the knife and buries it into his thigh. She knows where all the major arteries and veins are. She knows how to miss so that he hurts and bleeds for a long time. She knows where to strike so he doesn't anticipate the pain he'll feel. She knows where to cut so it feels new and painful and fresh again.

"Tell me what happened to Hope." She slices one of his nails off before chopping off another finger altogether. More screaming. "I can do this all night," she tells him softly. "But you don't have to. Are you ready to talk?" She picks up his index finger and sets it next to her tools. "Or should I cut something else off?" she teases the blade along his crotch, sliding it up to his neck. "I can't decide." She draws the blade back down, "but I think I'm getting warmer. I have medi-gel. I can patch you up and start over from scratch for hours." More agonized crying, his giant eye blinks back at her. "If I take the towel away will you scream?" This time he shakes his head.

Grace waits. She removes the towel. For a minute he just pants. She lets him. She hates him but hates herself too. He's sad and small. She is too, maybe. "Kai Leng," he begins, his words wobbly. "Illusive Man. Cerberus." More panting and noises. She gets up and gets him a bottle of water. She uncaps it and takes a long swig, still fighting off the effects of whatever sedative they tried to give her. "Leng caught up to her on Bekenstein," he swallows, then hangs his head and cries.

Grace lifts his head. "Come on, drink." She brings the water bottle carefully to his lips. He takes a few desperate drinks but a lot of the water runs down bloody from his mouth. She keeps encouraging him, patiently holding the bottle until he's had another few gulps. "Keep talking."

"Hope wouldn't give you up," he says stiltedly. "Was running—for too long," he heaves for breath. "Mr. Illusive sent Kai Leng. Kai Leng's his right hand. Takes care of… takes care of the hard jobs. He killed her. In Bekenstein but that wasn't me. That wasn't me," he's crying again.

Rage floods Grace. It's primal and overpowering. It's the way she feels around Hope. It's that heat that strikes in the center of her. Hope is alive. They think she's dead but she's alive. She has to remind herself of that even as she observes the Cerberus agent who clearly thinks she's dead, who wanted Grace to join her. "Why were they after her?" but her voice is thick and she's beginning to lose her focus.

"She took something. She was with you. I don't know; I'm just a soldier. They don't tell me anything, they just—"

He stops when Grace stabs his shoulder with the knife. She covers his mouth and he moans into her hand. She doesn't like people who won't take responsibility for their actions. "Why are you after me? You called me Grace. How did you know that name? I'm going to remove my hand. Don't scream or I'll cut out your tongue."

"Rolstons," he spits out when she lets go. "From New Canton," he shakes, his words pitching up and down, sounding half-crazed. "You saved them. They called in. Grace. You're Grace. You look like Shepard. Illusive Man wants you but I don't know why. That's all I know. That's all I know, please, please."

Those aren't many answers for the mess she's made but it's a start. Grace stands up and picks up a comm-piece from one of the other soldiers. She carries it to the soldier who looks at her. The gaping hole in his face is disturbing. "Report back in. Tell them you sighted the wrong target. Go on." He looks at her skeptically. "Look at your men. Look at you. Do you think I'm bluffing? Call them."

She punches the button on the communicator for him. There's static and then a tinny voice comes over the small earpiece. The tortured agent clears his throat. "This is Geneva Unit. False positive. The target was a negative." Grace nods, impressed at how even his voice sounds. "Roger that." His head falls forward, crying into his chest. Grace crushes the communicator under her boot. "I did what you wanted. Let me go. I'll disappear. I'm done with Cerberus. You won't hear from me again."

Grace touches the back of his neck and pulls him to her like an embrace. The butcher knife plummets into his stomach. He makes a sharp sound, as if he were submerged under water. His hot tears and sweat press to her shoulder. She feels ill. This is déjà vu. Is this Commander Shepard? Or is this who she is? Who Hope made her to be? Maybe she's only practical. She can't allow someone who celebrates Hope's death to live. She can't risk them going after her again. Hope would think it was sentimental. Maybe this is her way of being romantic.

"I won't hear from you again," Grace agrees. "Don't worry. I'll send Kai Leng to keep you company, you son of a bitch." She yanks the blade up, his stomach and chest coming open like a zipper.

* * *

The factory is a landmine. Each step they take is rife with danger as the factory continues to erupt. Flames burst through the floor and walls like hell beckoning. They leap over open gaps, quickly twisting to the side when the factory begins to collapse. Shepard anticipated having to fight for their lives—not literally running for them.

Still, she and Zaeed make a good team. They both have a fondness for killing mercenaries. Zaeed keeps close to her, awed by the bloodbath she leaves in her wake. "You really are a butcher," he says, his eyes gleaming with approval.

"I haven't had this much fun since Torfan," she says as she jumps over a small barricade. Shepard isn't sure if she means it. She's always liked combat. There's nothing like it to make her feel alive. It's a gamble with life and death but she doesn't believe in luck. She believes in playing her cards right—cheating when necessary. All that matters is getting the job done, all that matters is the adrenaline pumping through her. She craves it more than she used to, needs it to make her calm.

They finish off the remainder of the Blue Suns, both swearing as a YMIR heavy mech seems to come from nowhere. They work at shaving away its shields, trying not to get blown up in the process as it shoots a barrage of missiles at them. The missiles bury into walls and the floor, metal screeching around them, fire springing from what the YMIR destroys. The flames lick and reach for Shepard and Zaeed. She can still hear screaming. How can she still hear screaming? How long ago did she send Kasumi?

"Do you hear that, Zaeed?" she shouts.

He ignores her, focusing on the YMIR. It doesn't matter if she hears them. Zaeed doesn't give a damn. They spend the rest of the time outrunning the spray of gunfire, finding cover and flanking the mech, pumping it full of bullets, until the thing finally goes down. They sprint past it towards the exit. When the mech explodes, Shepard isn't far enough away. Her shields fry as she's blasted forward onto her hands and knees.

For a minute she can't hear anything but a ringing in her ears. The room spins. Zaeed stops to look back at her but she waves him forward. The helmet is cracked. She tears it off and chucks it to the side. She gets to her feet, feeling disoriented and dizzy, rubbing her eyes until the shadows go away. She hurries after him, swearing inwardly at her sloppiness.

There's a shuttle outside with a dead pilot slumped over the controls. Vido's not so tough anymore. Shepard feels heat at her back. She's pretty sure the hardsuit is partially melted. Vido's on his knees, crying and begging. Zaeed goes over, kicking him hard in the face until he topples to the ground. "Thought you'd get away, did you? You ran the Blue Suns into the ground, Vido, now it's time for you to join them."

Shepard smiles. "Want me to hold him down while _you_ blow his brains out?"

Zaeed returns the smile. "Thanks for the offer, Shepard, but I want him to burn," he discharges a heated slug into the pool of gasoline the idiot dragged himself into. They watch him flail and scream as he burns alive.

Shepard's riveted. His screams are the only ones she can hear now. Kasumi must have gotten to the factory workers. It's a relief. Vido's hardsuit is melting onto him. She hears a sizzling that isn't Vido's suit or skin and rips her chest piece off. Her own suit is still burning. She wonders if the combined force of the heavy mech explosion along with the fried shields caused the anomaly. She throws the worthless piece to the ground in frustration.

The cool air on her skin is welcome and Shepard takes a deep breath. She isn't troubled by the thick plumes of smoke shooting from the factory. "Looks like he's dead," Shepard says but he isn't really, he's on the ground twitching, his arms in spasms. "And you thought I'd let him get away."

"Guess I was wrong about you. You're all right," he says with a laugh. Vido finally stops moving. What's left is a smoldering husk. Zaeed looks different, at ease. This is his fresh start. Shepard mentally congratulates herself on a job well done. "Let's get the girl and get out of here."

"Negative. I told her to get the factory workers and rendezvous at this point. We can't go back the way we came." Zaeed is indifferent to the news. Vido's dead. He's no longer in a hurry. "She's clever. She'll find us." Shepard folds her arms on the railing, taking a slow breath, happy the mission is over but unsatisfied. After such a chase she was expecting a gunfight. She was expecting something brutal. Instead she didn't lay a hand on Vido. The whole thing was a tease. She looks at Zaeed. For a man his age he's in exceptional shape, his arms heavily muscled, and his ass could give Jacob a run for his money. "Up for a celebration while we wait?"

He cocks an eyebrow but as soon as she touches his arm he's caught her meaning. He crushes her to him, his mouth bruising against hers. Shepard finds his belt, undoing it before jerking it free. Zaeed unbuckles the remaining latches to her hardsuit before taking a fistful of her hair to look at her. Shepard smiles. "Didn't think you played with boys, Shepard."

"I want what I want. Right now that's you. You going to complain?" She takes his hands snaking beneath her undershirt as a no. His fingers are rough and callused, scratching along her breasts, rough, but exactly what she's looking for. Their mouths are hot on each other's again and she shoves him to the ground, mounting him. They're both ready. She brings her hands to his neck, squeezing as she rides him. He grabs her wrists but she isn't sure if he wants to stop her or simply hold on.

Shepard wonders why Liara hasn't responded to her emails. Maybe she should bring her the Shadow Broker information. Maybe she should tell her to fuck off. She closes her eyes, fumbling, reaching for something that eventually manifests at some undetermined point in time. The orgasm shakes her, wakes her, makes her alert, gives her a sliver of satisfaction. But it isn't Liara. She's filled with a tired sort of regret for their situation. She waits for him to finish and then rolls off him. She dresses and considers thanking him, like with Jack, but doesn't. It would be crude. She should stop fucking her crew. But it helped. It helped the restlessness. Shepard smiles awkwardly at him and rubs her arms. It's starting to get cold.

After he dresses he returns to the railing. "The girl's taking her time," he says.

Shepard does a visual scan of the perimeter but can't find her. Doubt furrows her brow. "Yeah."

* * *

The quarian and the turian have been talking in the battery for hours. Dinner is slop but nobody complains. The air is thick and heavy. Commander Shepard went into a debriefing in Miranda's office not long after returning with Zaeed and exited shortly, taking quick, long strides to the elevator and punching the button.

It isn't long before Kelly Chambers arrives, datapad in hand, a carefully arranged expression of concern on her face. Gardner notices spice from the ramen packet earlier and sweeps it into his hand from the counter, dumping it into the trash, washing his hands of it.

"I am taking the opportunity to talk to _all_ crew members about what has happened," she tells him in a slow, lulling way. "It may not always be easy but talking can be cathartic, healing." He makes a face at her and she moves around the counter to stand closer to him. Gardner can't figure if she's coming on to him or only wants to flex the psychology degree.

"Go talk to Shepard," he dries his hands on the towel hanging off the stove. "She was nice but I'm not going to boohoo about it." He shrugs.

Kelly touches his shoulder, her fingers grasping gently. "Feelings of denial are normal. I'll be around if you change your mind."

She slips away and none too soon. Had she held his shoulder longer he would have become nervous from either the touch of a woman or the creepy, crawly feeling of not knowing what it was that she _wanted_. He wipes the kitchen down for the third time in an hour before heading to the closet they call a pantry. The door slides shut behind him and he moves around the small crates of paste and beans to find the QEC communicator.

It's state of the art. The trade-off for the small size and portability is that it can only send simple text messages. Smuggling it aboard had been nerve-wracking, but Rasa had assured him it was necessary. It was why she had chosen him. Anytime he uses it he nearly pisses his pants but this seems like as good a time as any. The ship is in chaos. The mood is grim. He types the note out quickly.

 _Vido Santiago eliminated on Zorya. Casualties: Kasumi Goto. Will update later with progress._

Fingers shaking, he stashes the QEC communicator behind the canned beans, outdated by thirty years or so. He runs his sweaty palms over his bald head, takes a breath and exits the pantry. Maybe he shouldn't have used her ramen. The thought is so stupid that he nearly chuckles. He quickly acclimates himself to the mood, his face somber. The last thing he needs to do is get someone's attention. Getting compromised by the _Normandy_ crew is not half so terrifying as earning Rasa's anger.

* * *

Hope is hunched over on the couch as she reads the words on her handheld device. She reads them again to make sure there was no mistake.

Cold rage has settled into her, along with another distant, empty feeling. She tells herself they were just partners, never friends. They knew each other. They worked together. That's all. Hope created a dossier for Kasumi Goto because her talents should have been a boon to Commander Shepard.

Shepard is a bigger disaster than Hope thought. Before she lost her way she was sacrificing human lives for aliens. Now she isn't competent enough to lead an exemplary team through a routine mission. Cerberus wanted the best and Hope drafted dossiers for the best. The Collectors are a threat to humanity. Shepard never got anywhere on her own and Kasumi was looking for someone to help her with the graybox.

Hope realizes Kasumi will never get the graybox now. She should have killed Hock on Bekenstein. How many more will Shepard go through? How many more will she lose? What will it mean for humanity? What will it mean for the war against the Reapers? She lifts a trembling hand to her mouth.

She doesn't recognize the shadowed figure that enters. Grace is a bloodied ghoul when she steps into the light. Hope stands. There's so much blood. Her throat is dry. She can't move. Grace comes to her. The hoodie is wet with blood but her face is caked in it, her pants and her boots, her hands look like they were dipped in red mud that is only partially dried over.

Grace cocks her head. "Are you all right?"

Her voice is soft. A ripple passes through Hope, pulling her out of her fugue. "What happened?" she can barely hear herself. She can smell the blood on her. Even butchers don't get quantities of blood like that on them. Hope isn't sure if she's dismayed, awed or blank. Mostly the last. The future of the galaxy is dire if Shepard's actions today are any indication. A small current of what may be fear punctures into her sharply. She bites her lip to not draw breath.

"Cerberus. I took care of it." Grace brushes the hair back from her face. The contact is calming despite the alarm that seems so far away. Grace lifts Hope's chin, leaving a red mark on her face. Grace's eyes are flint. Determined. Reassuring. "I know who hurt you. I won't let them hurt you again."

Hope says nothing. Her bottom lip quivers and then stills, eyes glazing over. She tells herself she's angry. She's angry at Shepard for her incompetence. She's angry at Kasumi for letting herself be killed. She's angry at Miranda for not controlling Shepard. She's angry at herself for too many reasons. Her fingers grasp tenuously at Grace's hoodie. As if prompted, Grace slides her arms around her waist, draws her close.

Hope closes her eyes and rests against her shoulder. She smells filthy. She smells like a murderer. It is oddly comforting. "Commander Shepard isn't fit," she says quietly, battling the shakiness that threatens to enter her voice. "Letting her live endangers everyone," she clutches Grace more tightly. Grace's fingers stroke her hair. She wonders what Grace did to get into the state she's in. No doubt it required some finesse and skill, violence. "You'll have to kill her."

She waits for Grace to tense. She waits for her protest but Grace's chest keeps rising and falling calmly as it did before. She doesn't know how much time passes with Grace's fingers threading through her hair. She's nearly falling asleep when Grace brings her lips to her ear, hovering and warm in a way that makes her drowsy and hyper-aware in one. "Okay."


	12. Remains

There are no fish. The aquarium water is a dull blue, lit sadly by a fluorescent light. The ship model display case is empty. The only decoration is a framed picture of Liara T'Soni on the desk. Kelly Chambers descends three steps to the main area of Shepard's cabin. The Commander sits on the bed, head in her hands.

Kelly's instinct is to go to Shepard, soothe her pain in some way. She is under strict orders from Miranda Lawson to not engage in any sort of fraternization with the Commander. Kelly could argue that a little fraternization might benefit Cerberus—but knows that the XO isn't aware of everything that happens on the _Normandy SR-2_. The Illusive Man would prefer to keep it that way.

Commander Shepard summoned _her_. Kasumi died on Zorya days ago. Kelly offered an ear, should she need it, but had not expected Shepard to take her up on the offer. "Is this a good time?" Kelly asks. She keeps some distance between them. "I could come back later if you'd be more comfortable."

Minutes pass with no response. Kelly watches the numbers on the clock change. She turns to leave and has her wrist snatched tightly. Shepard's hand is warm and clammy. Kelly glances at her. Shepard lets go. "Give me the sitrep." Kelly doesn't know what she refers to and is momentarily anxious. "Morale."

Oh. "Morale is…shaky," she says cautiously. Shepard walks around her slowly and Kelly listens to her footsteps as she tries to paint an accurate but not bleak picture. "Grunt, Thane and Zaeed appear unfazed though Thane is regretful and has said he will pray for her. Garrus is busier than ever calibrating. He wouldn't speak to me. Jacob is upset." Shepard frowns. "Does that bother you?"

"It doesn't."

Kelly watches her closely. Her voice is sure but her eyes are far away. "Miranda sent a probe to search the area. The factory was completely destroyed. No one escaped alive."

"I didn't call you up here to tell me what I already know."

"No, of course," Kelly stumbles. Shepard, who was close, pulls away again to circle her. "Jack 'doesn't care'. Samara told me to return later, she was 'reflecting on the Code'. Miranda Lawson has denied all offers to talk. Tali'Zorah is unhappy. She didn't say it but her tone and body language…" Shepard stops, her back straightening, eyes narrowing on her. "Both she and Jacob share the opinion that Kasumi and the factory workers died needlessly for petty revenge." Kelly wonders if Shepard knows the way her chin dips slightly in thought. "I don't think you could have done more. You did all you could."

"You really believe all that shit you spout or are you trying to reassure me?" Shepard rubs the back of her neck and sits on the couch. There's a beat. "It was a bad call. I've been making a lot of those lately." There's a tired, defeated smile in her voice.

Kelly thinks to the bold woman who took her on the bed not minutes after her first initial visit. Kelly had been excited. She thought maybe there could be more. Shepard disagreed. Kelly doubts Shepard remembers it happened. It takes a certain pathology to create that kind of individual. "How are you, Commander?"

"I'm great. Just look at me." Shepard looks at her and smiles. It's enough to fluster most individuals. She is scar-free and beautiful. Her eyes are luminescent. Kelly is still. The Commander may be in denial or she's simply been through a long enough military career that a loss of life is expected. She has lost Ashley Williams and Urdnot Wrex. She came through those okay. Then again, she died not long after they did. Kelly cautiously takes a seat next to her. Shepard follows her movements, stares. "Are you trying to determine whether I'm fit for duty? Soon as we're done here you'll run to Miranda or the Illusive Man, won't you?" Her tone and look is playful but Kelly doesn't doubt for a second she means her words.

"No," she says defensively. She'll only run to one. "I wouldn't." The lie comes easily to her. She was selected by the Illusive Man himself. She knows what's at stake and how important it is that the mission succeeds. The rest of the crew can think she's a coffee girl. She knows her value. "I care about you, Commander. If you want to talk I'm always happy to listen. Even off the record." She smiles nervously. Shepard continues to look at her. "I can't force you to. No one can force you into anything."

There's another long silence where Shepard stares at her. Kelly's unsettled, thinking back to the labs she worked in with particularly ill patients. She remembers how they stared blankly for so long. Sometimes nothing happened. Other times they made a move, a lunge for her. Both were…unpleasant.

"I was better than this before. Everything feels… out of control," her voice is husky and raw for a moment. As if she were crying or near tears but her eyes are dry, her face emotionless. Her fingers skim along Kelly's hair, along her cheeks. Kelly holds her breath. Then Shepard winces and stands, touching her forehead.

Kelly quickly rises to her feet. "I appreciate your confidence." And though she must immediately betray it, some small part of her would like to think the confidence was bestowed because of her particular approach.

Shepard smiles. There's something light in her eyes, some thought that's going unvoiced, something Kelly doesn't want to hear. Kelly decides not to press the issue. Some part of her is disappointed that Shepard didn't attempt sexual advances, for both personal and professional reasons. As she's near the door, she stops. "You should get some fish." But Kelly thinks she only says it for her own state of mind and not Shepard's.

* * *

They left Therum almost immediately, moving to a more temperate location. Grace can't recall if she physically dragged Hope to the shuttle or held her hand. She's aware that Hope will remember it in a different way than she does.

The new safe house is better, though Grace has grown tired of the constant moving. Leaving Therum so quickly filled her with a touch of regret. Truthfully she'd been curious about visiting the area where she—where _Shepard_ met Liara T'Soni. Hope explained that there was no point in seeing ruins and was irritated when Grace countered that it was what they had done many times over.

Hope has been quiet and introspective, not wanting to talk, barely responding to her touches. Grace takes the time to engross herself in Liara's papers. When Hope isn't present to judge her for it, she searches for pictures of the woman, going so far as to save one on her omni-tool. It's what Shepard would do. She has to play the part, whether she wants to or not. When Grace looks at the asari's picture, she tries not to think of how Liara's lips brushed against hers—how she hadn't hated it.

The picture she's found is of Liara in a lab, wearing a green and white uniform, a datapad in hand, a nervous smile on her lips. Grace realizes she's smiling and forces her face to go neutral. Liara looked different then. Younger, more trusting somehow. Not the severe, hardened… Grace blocks her mind from going there. It is admittedly difficult.

Liara T'Soni's papers are lengthy with barely contained enthusiasm for the subject matter. They go on at length over the technology left behind as well as detailed descriptions of the Protheans' beautiful architecture. Just thinking about the Protheans makes Grace's head hurt. It recalls the shrieking images in her mind from the Cipher. Liara's papers, at the very least, make the subject matter interesting. According to Liara, the Protheans were a wise, benevolent race that favored diplomacy and scholarship. Then something happened to them. The Reapers? Machine ships, Santos said. The image of some twisted massive bug thing comes to mind.

Hope's hand on her shoulder pulls her from…whatever it was. A memory? Something gained from a meld? She isn't sure anymore. Hope sets a hot cup of coffee beside her. Despite having been seated at the kitchen table to read over the papers, Grace hadn't noticed her come in.

"Engrossed, are we?" Hope asks.

Her tone is lighter than it has been in days. Even Grace's promise to kill Shepard hadn't been enough to lift Hope's spirits. That night Grace stepped into the shower to wash the blood away. It was too long before the water ran clear again. Hope stood at the shower door, watching her. Grace wasn't sure if some of Hope's confidence waned with the washing of the blood. It brought back hazy memories of what she first remembers of Hope. Showers. Embarrassing showers when she had to be hosed down. Hope took care of her. Watched over her. Why can't she remember anything before then? Does she have to? Overcome with fondness, Grace reached out, pulling her close and kissing her. Hope let her, lips soft and grazing as a butterfly's wings against hers, not seeming to mind that she was getting soaked.

Grace smiles grimly. "I'm reading the 'Prothean Expert's' papers." Though her tone is condescending she doesn't have anything immediately dismissive to say. "It doesn't help me clear up what was in the Cipher, though. Or what could have happened to the Protheans. Other than they were wiped out fifty-thousand years ago. Approximately." It's awfully specific and vague in one. "According to her papers, the Protheans were a united people. I can't imagine what war might have happened to wipe them out so completely."

"Don't let those papers put stars in your eyes about the Protheans," Hope sits to the side of her, taking a drink from the steaming hot coffee and not flinching. Grace has an experimental sip and burns her tongue. "They're a little…shall we say, naïve?" She begins to turn the computer and Grace quickly exits out of the small windows she had of Liara's pictures. Hope looks at her questioningly, looks at the screen with the paper on it and turns it back in Grace's direction.

"She's been studying them longer than we've been alive," Grace says. A small smirk touches Hope's lips. Grace feels as if she's being made fun of but has nothing to back up the suspicion. Her cheeks warm. "She's the _only_ Prothean expert." And suddenly her attempt to seem facetious earlier only makes her true feelings the more obvious. She frowns. "That must count for something."

"She is the lone voice on Protheans. All she has are romanticized ideals and dreams, studying a race that was extinguished before…" Hope shakes her head. "I can't even come up with an adequate comparison of how off the mark she may be. She may be a hundred and eight years old but that's nothing to the asari. She's barely out of her teenage years," she takes another drink of the scalding coffee. "But by all means, study up. I assume Shepard was moved by the same drivel."

"I'm not moved by it," Grace snaps lightly. She shuts the computer, annoyed. Hope smiles palely, as if having won an argument. Grace knows that there's room for error. Lots of room for error. Without records, it's nearly impossible to ascertain what the truth of a race or period in time was without a living, breathing being around to tell one about it. All Liara T'Soni has are suppositions. But hers are better than most, she gathers. At the very least, Liara is trying to understand. All Grace knows is that the Protheans are dead, wiped out. "You're feeling better."

Hope taps a finger on the table. "I was able to intercept a message some time ago. I don't think Shepard's going to make a visit anytime soon so I'll expect you to go and see what you can scrounge up." She pushes the coordinates to Grace on a piece of paper.

Grace recognizes the location immediately. Dread fills her. She touches the paper hesitantly as if it were enough to burn her. She can't say she remembers a fire. It's more like she _feels_ heat all over her. That same breathlessness in her lungs and then cold. She hadn't thought Hope would ask her to visit this place, to see the skeletal remains of the _Normandy_. "I'll go right away." She stands. Hope frowns and Grace finishes the coffee straight away, gulping down the burning liquid.

"I'm not ready."

"I'm going on my own." Her voice tells Hope the matter isn't up for discussion.

* * *

The search for Oriana is futile but Miranda can't abandon it. Her time, her loyalties belong solely to Cerberus. Her investigation must always wait for the very limited free time she has. She swallows the crippling disappointment when she turns up nothing.

The Illusive Man is questioning why Kasumi Goto is dead. When Miranda near-heatedly responded that it was for the same reason that Oriana had gone missing: Shepard and the Illusive Man's incompetence, their unwillingness to face that not all was as it should be—the Illusive Man shifted the blame back to her. It is _her_ job to control Shepard, it is _her_ job to assist Shepard however possible. A severe, emotionless reprimand and warning, along with an exhalation of smoke and the flash of his peculiar eyes were all he gave Miranda before dismissing her.

Thus far Shepard's beat Jacob senseless, Oriana has been lost (Miranda reminds herself Oriana's life is not a particular asset to the mission—despite how her security would ease Miranda's mind) and Kasumi is dead. Shepard skulked into her office like a dog with its tail between its legs to report the news. Perhaps she was too shocked or stupid to realize their life signs are actively monitored on the _Normandy_. _What the bloody hell were you thinking, Shepard?_ Miranda demanded but Shepard had stared at a wall, her jaw clenched, eyes glossy.

That was nearly two weeks ago. Damn it. There's still so much to do. The Collectors continue to abduct human colonies. Shepard has been calmer recently, no crewmembers beaten into a coma anyway, and she's taken care to debrief with Miranda after missions. She ought to be satisfied but she is not. Perhaps living in the shadow of perfection has molded her to demand it from everybody else.

She wonders, absently, what happened to the batch of clones that was made. They were meant to be Shepard's personal chop shop. Maybe there's a brain with a control chip they could swap out. Her lips nearly curl at the snide thought but stills when Shepard walks in. She palms the doorway hesitantly and Miranda, who hadn't realized she was pacing, stops. Miranda lifts her arms lightly, almost as if throwing them up in frustration. "Shepard."

"Is this a good time?"

"I can't recall the last time we've had one of those," she sits and nods at the chair in front of her. "I imagine you know that just as well as I do." Shepard enters uncertainly before sitting. They stare at one another. Shepard's usual contempt is missing but Miranda has trouble hiding her vexation. She has a drink from her glass of water and laces her fingers, squaring her shoulders and leaning forward. "I'm a busy woman. If you have something, make it quick." She's got her work to do and some of Shepard's on top of it.

Luckily some of the video feeds have come back online. The irritating quarian didn't do it for her sake, she's sure—but Miranda's seen her spending time with Garrus in the battery. Maybe they're finally beginning to realize that Cerberus isn't the enemy—or at least, that they aren't helping matters any by sabotaging the ship they happen to be serving on.

"I want to see Liara," Shepard says. Miranda bites her tongue lightly, looking at her nails so as not to roll her eyes, before looking to Shepard again. "…I need to get my head on straight."

"Really, Shepard? What does 'getting your head on straight' usually mean? Heading to Illium takes time. Are you sure there isn't another crewmember you could fraternize with?"

"Are you offering?" Shepard asks. There's no smile in the question. Her eyes are menacing. Miranda leans back in the chair and waits. "A while back you sent me some information on the Shadow Broker. I don't know why I've waited so long. I think… I didn't want Liara to see me the way I was." She sounds far away, as if she were reciting a message for some audio log instead of having a conversation. "I know we've got to buckle down," she rubs her forehead gently, "and I know I've made mistakes. I just need to make things right. I just…need to see some things through."

Miranda takes a breath and crosses one leg over another. Shepard stares at the corner of the desk. Is she embarrassed? Has she become sheepish? What thought is she lost in? The holographic representation of EDI pops up by Shepard. "The fish you've requisitioned are available in your cabin, Commander Shepard. Yeomen Kelly Chambers is preparing them as we speak."

"Not now, EDI," Miranda snaps. EDI disappears. Fish? She nearly loses her train of thought. "Well, Shepard, I can't imagine why you're here. This is your ship. You're in charge. You've made that abundantly clear. We set course where you like, when you like. Why are you telling me this?"

"I'm guessing taking on the Shadow Broker is no light business," Shepard says with a faint smile. Miranda returns it wryly. "I know it's dangerous. And I know I've… let some people down. I don't want to do that anymore. I'm setting course for Illium. And I want Garrus and you to come with me." She stands, setting her hands on the desk, meeting Miranda's gaze head on. "That's not a request."

* * *

Ah, Illium. Garrus looks around. Seems like he only ever gets to come out when Liara's involved. Normally he'd crack a joke about being Shepard's wingman but he knows when to press and when to step back. He frowns thoughtfully. Maybe he stepped back for too long. Now Miranda Lawson is around, humorless as ever, no doubt babysitting.

Lots of asari in Illium. Garrus can't say they've ever been his type though he's found the more flexible dancers to be…captivating. He would hazard Shepard is asarisexual (and hates that he even has to think of these things) what with Sha'ira, Liara, and if the scuttlebutt holds true—Samara. Most species don't cross over to others but Shepard's different. He wonders how much of it has to do with some fetish or her fixation on Liara. Last time they were here he was worried and Shepard was so pissed off from whatever happened between her and Liara that Garrus learned to leave well enough alone.

Now they're traipsing through Illium and they're off to see her again. Shepard means business—she doesn't so much as bat an eye at the other asari. Maybe it's because everything on Illium is monitored. He thinks, absently, that this 'shore leave' will be enough time for Tali to finish re-establishing vid feeds. He's grateful but doesn't doubt that it'll lead to another debate with the quarian. Tali has a way of putting him through the ringer and honestly, he doesn't blame her.

Maybe he built up Shepard too much in his mind. Hell, he's made mistakes before. He trusted the wrong person and lost his entire squad to Sidonis. Shepard's been through a mess of trouble. Got blown up, got brought back and from the sound of it—got rejected by Liara T'Soni. Garrus never thought Shepard would be serious about anyone. He's seen men lose it before, drowning themselves in drink and women. It's a coping mechanism and Shepard isn't the kind to see a shrink. Kelly Chambers pops absently into his head. He wonders if she'll be doing more than feeding fish.

They arrive at Liara's office. The receptionist from before—Nyxeris, is missing. Shepard is sweating and pale. She takes a breath and smiles back at them anxiously. Miranda's brow furrows gently. "Give me a minute," she says and walks in, the doors shutting close with a finality behind her.

Garrus clears his throat. Miranda takes a breath, walks in a small circle. Her heels clack on the floor before she settles and rests against a wall, crossing her arms gingerly. Garrus wonders how tall she is without the boots. Normally he'd ask but Miranda isn't like the old _Normandy_ crew and doubts she could stand up to any decent ribbing. He scratches his mandible and stares at the door to Liara's office.

He and Miranda have talked about Shepard before. He gave Miranda a hard time. Lately even doing calibrations isn't enough to stop him from sweating bullets. "So, the Shadow Broker," he says to Miranda. "Should be a walk in the park." He pretends he didn't see her roll her eyes. He clears his throat again. This isn't awkward in the slightest. He looks at the door again and hopes desperately that this isn't a conjugal visit.

* * *

Shepard isn't sure what she expected when she walked through the door. She often imagined Liara enthralled with her face reconstruction, unable to deny her any longer. Shepard constructed many similar, elaborate scenarios. They come to her while staring at her cabin ceiling in the middle of the night unable to sleep.

It's so hard to sleep.

In her most daring fantasies, Liara joins her of her own free will, without needing the Shadow Broker intel as bait. She loves her. She would be with her because she asked. Liara would need only her.

Liara looks at her quizzically. "Are you all right…?" she takes a tentative step forward. Shepard's disappointed in the greeting. The last time she visited her face was coming apart, glowing unnaturally. Liara studies her as if she looks worse. Shepard curses herself for being so nervous, for building this up so much in her mind that it couldn't possibly meet expectations. "I wasn't expecting to see you again so soon."

Soon? Shepard wipes sweat from her brow. "It hasn't felt like 'soon' to me, Liara." Liara nods. To Shepard's chagrin, Liara retreats, going to the desk and touching it somewhat aimlessly. "You could have sent word. Email. Anything."

"You know why I haven't," she says lightly. Shepard scowls. This is all wrong. This is disappointing. A part of her wants to restore Liara's faith and give her the intel. Another part wants to exit the office and leave her to fend for herself. She was an idiot to believe that Liara felt the same way. She's in her maiden years. Who the hell knows how she's been passing her time? Shepard thinks about coming clean with her actions. She bites back the confession, terrified of Liara's indifference. "I see why others admire your determination. You won't give up until you get the answer you want. There's some charm in that," but she says it as if it were an afterthought.

Shepard moves closer. "How do you like my face?" Seeking approval has never been her style. If it were anyone else, she would laugh at them. Liara used to make her feel as if she were on top of the world. So why does she feel like dirt?

"It's as pleasant as usual, Jane." She ducks her chin thoughtfully. "I… have been thinking of our last meeting." Shepard straightens. "I shouldn't have kissed you. It was…unfair. I know I said that… but it doesn't absolve me of my wrongdoing." Shepard barely hears the words. Her heart plummets. She's dizzy and cold. She can't recall Liara saying anything like that but isn't able to focus long enough to think it through. She can think of nothing to say. Her mouth is dry. Liara pushes away from the desk. "Are you all right?" she asks again, more quietly this time.

Shepard flexes her fingers and turns abruptly from her, assaulted by vertigo and anger. "That kiss was the only thing I've been able to hold on to," she says hoarsely. "It's the only thing I've had." She's sweating more than ever. Maybe Chakwas should check her. She's not well.

Liara touches her arm and Shepard whirls violently to look at her. Liara is still. Her expression is unreadable. Is she afraid?

Shepard brings a hand to her face, tries to get a hold of her breathing, tries not to cry. How is this happening? How did she let things get this way? Shepard struggles for words, for anything that will take the hurt away. She could leave her. She could leave her to rot, let her waste her life chasing after the Shadow Broker. It isn't the same Liara anymore. Not really. Screw Liara and whatever friend the Shadow Broker has captive.

Liara's eyes settle on her. They're curious and worried. She's a little paler than usual. Her freckles stand out vividly against her skin. Liara breathes her name and Shepard swallows.

"Miranda and Garrus are here," Shepard says somewhat shakily. "We know where the Shadow Broker is. You can be finished with all of this. You can be finished with all of this, Liara," she takes her hands desperately, "and then you can come with me. Once this is done you can come with me, can't you?"

Liara's lips part and then close, her head turning. "I… can't make any promises." She pulls her hands carefully away. Shepard latches onto them again. "But… it's something to consider."

Shepard closes her eyes, relief washing over her. Everything will be all right. Everything will finally be all right.

* * *

Tela Vasir squeezes off three shots. They fire silently from the sniper rifle. Two to the heart, one to the head, but Liara's prepared. The barrier is impressive, especially for a maiden. Guess Matriarch Benezia's little pureblood bitch learned a thing or two from her mother.

Tela smiles, impressed. She imagined it would be a simple hit but a little game of cat and mouse never killed anyone—except her target. It's too bad. Tela liked Benezia, looked up to her. But Benezia is gone now and the Shadow Broker wants Liara gone. The lives of the Council, the lives of the greater good outweighs killing off a nosy asari who doesn't know to leave well enough alone.

Rain falls heavily. She leaves the sniper rifle and picks up the skyline hook, positions it perfectly, letting it spring forward to embed into a wall the next building over. It's a gap of nearly a hundred feet. It would make for a nasty fall. Tela secures the hook on her side before slapping the metallic hook onto the thick cord. She zip-lines over to the other building, looking at the black all around her, the colorful lights of buildings illuminating the skies. She keeps an eye out for Liara, ready to take her out the second she sets sights on her but sees nothing.

Tela rips open the roof door and makes her way down quickly to Liara's apartment. The building is monstrous and it takes her minutes to sprint down the stairs.

The apartment security has been disabled and she strolls in. The apartment is massive. Netting a place like this on Illium can't be cheap. She leaves the M-15 Vindicator on her back, opting for the Acolyte at her side. _Let's see you try to put a barrier up now._

The apartment is dark, things scattered. Tela spots the bullet casings on the floor by the window. She hears a noise and does a one-eighty, Acolyte primed but there's no one. Frowning she moves to the door but sees nothing to either side of her on the hallway. She quickly searches the rest of the apartment. She's gone.

She's got to give it to her. She's fast. Irritated, she holsters the Acolyte and calls in the Illium police. They're largely incompetent, more used to dealing with white collar crime than any criminal investigation, but they dutifully set up police tape and begin to search for clues.

She knows that Shepard is in league with Liara. Nothing she would have ever gotten a whiff of if it wasn't for the Shadow Broker. The Spectre arrives with Garrus Vakarian and Miranda Lawson in tow. Tela takes Lawson in. Not bad for a human. Her eyes are like splinters of ice settling coolly over her.

Shepard, on the other hand, looks nearly distraught. "Shepard," Tela strides over, takes her hand firmly. "Tela Vasir." Shepard's hand is cold and clammy, despite the strong grip. "If you're looking for Liara T'Soni you're too late. Looks like someone made an assassination attempt. They should have known better than to think it'd be so easy."

"What do we know?" Shepard asks.

Tela goes through the routine. If the Shadow Broker is right about Shepard and T'Soni (he hasn't steered Tela wrong so far), then Shepard might be the key to tracking her. Tela watches her move around the apartment, half-desperate, half-dazed. She stops at a display with broken N7 armor, touching a hand to the glass. Looks like the Shadow Broker was on the money.

"Well, this is a great start," Garrus remarks dryly, wiping rain from his crests and face. He goes to the window to study the bullet holes. "It's a good thing for all of us it was some amateur on the case and not Archangel."

Tela scowls at him. Miranda turns to her. "You're a Spectre for the Council aren't you? I wasn't aware Spectres spent a lot of time on Illium. Surely your efforts could be better placed elsewhere."

"Aren't you with Cerberus?" Tela asks. "Maybe I should launch an investigation into your presence on Illium. Cerberus and aliens don't mix well, do they?" She smiles as Miranda's lips thin, eyebrows narrowing.

"I found something!" Shepard calls from upstairs, bringing down a framed photograph of some Prothean ruin. Soon they begin searching through Liara's apartment for every ugly item Liara thought to salvage and enshrine. Shepard looks pensive throughout, nodding at something Garrus says when he claps his hand reassuringly on her shoulder.

What a hot mess. Tela would have someone kill her before she let herself become so pathetic. At least, she tells herself, Shepard won't pose any threat if she decides to make trouble. Shepard finds a disc with a conversation between Sekat and Liara. She's headed to the Dracon Trade Center. The Shadow Broker wants them both eliminated. "Good work, Shepard," Tela tells her. Now she'll be able to take care of them both.

* * *

Liara practically leaps from the car and onto the terrace of the Dracon Trade Center. So, Tela Vasir is trying to kill her. Good. It means she's getting close to the Shadow Broker. The more men they send after her, the closer she knows she is. Let the Shadow Broker send his forces after her. She'll tear them apart and save him for last.

Puddles of water splash as she runs past the mobs of people and into the building. Her lungs are on fire. This is it. Two years of hunting the Shadow Broker, two years of mourning Shepard are about to come to a close. She would have liked to find the Shadow Broker herself but it's fitting that Shepard brought her the intel.

In the end, she's always been there for her, no matter their… disagreements. She takes out the M-6 Carnifex at her side, sweeping it over her surroundings as she moves. All she sees are worried employees. They probably think her mad, soaked in rainwater, wearing a hardsuit and a lab coat, ready for a fight. If they're smart they'll stay out of her way. She can't risk losing the Shadow Broker's trail.

She pulls up Sekat's location on her omni-tool and is nearly to the elevators when the floor starts trembling. Instinct makes her raise a barrier at the last instant and it likely saves her life. A massive column snaps over the barrier and she's blasted back, slamming into the metallic foundation of an enclosed garden.

Liara gets to her feet just in time to see mercenaries begin to filter into the building. Normally she'd worry. Today she is vindicated. She is wrath personified. She gave up two years of her life for Shepard—as did Feron. If Shepard knew the truth… she doesn't know. His sacrifice will not be in vain. Perhaps she's foolish to hope that Feron lives but if Shepard can come back from that… hunk of tubes and flesh that she was then Feron can survive.

She makes her way up the building, finding alternate routes when she reaches collapsed areas, avoiding the flames that have sprung up from everywhere. The water sprinkling system isn't enough to douse the fire. Whoever is after her is surely after Sekat. She is merciless as she moves, freezing the Shadow Broker's agents with stasis before blowing their brains out. The woman Shepard knew would have flinched at that. Liara doesn't flinch anymore.

She is unaware of how much time has passed when she reaches the floor to rendezvous with Sekat. All she knows is Shepard and her squad have beaten her to the punch. And there's Tela Vasir in the midst of it all. Liara enters the room, gun honed on Tela. Shepard doesn't question her for a moment, lifting the M-23 Eviscerator in Tela's direction the moment she sees Liara's target. Warm relief floods over Liara, the rain and water sprinkling system not enough to keep her cool. "Talk to me," Shepard says.

"She's working for the Shadow Broker," Liara says through gritted teeth. "She tried to take me out earlier." Her eyes narrow as she spots Sekat's lifeless body slumped to the side. "I'll make her wish she had."

"You're the bad shot?" Garrus asks, training his M-96 Mattock on Tela. "A Spectre! You should be embarrassed."

"Oh, screw this," Tela says. With a biotic pull she yanks the roofs down over their heads. Liara creates another barrier. It begins to crack as concrete hammers into it. Liara meets Shepard's eyes. She smiles reassuringly. Liara returns it. All of this chaos and the two of them are together. It's just like old times. Maybe they can be together again. Maybe.

Liara looks away. She can't get lost in eyes and smiles. She can't forget the things Shepard has done. She flings the collapsed materials at Tela but she's good—she dodges. An instant later Shepard's knocked Tela out the window.

The two of them go tumbling down, fighting as they fall. Liara doesn't wait. She goes after them. When Tela kicks Shepard to the ground and makes a run for it, Liara doesn't stop, doesn't look back. It's had to be this way for two years. She can't stop now. She won't. Not even for Shepard.

* * *

Shepard is a bloody marvel. Miranda wonders if she's made a mistake, if she misjudged her. Shepard may drive like a maniac, but Tela Vasir is exceptional and Shepard is holding her own. Miranda has never battled a biotic Spectre before, a matron or matriarch even. Vasir's biotic capabilities are more than good. The shockwaves she sends in her direction are enough to tear through her shields as if they were nothing.

She throws herself behind cover when she can. While she and Liara scramble to keep their shields up, to get them recharging, Shepard is hurling herself at Vasir over and over again.

Shepard doesn't give Vasir any ground, which gives Miranda and Liara the chance to focus their energies on dispensing with the Shadow Broker's soldiers. One by one, sometimes in clusters, they strip them of their shields, setting off biotic detonations, exchanging quick smiles as they whittle down the assailants.

When they're finished they turn back to Shepard whose face is bleeding and sweaty. She's radiant, the manifestation of vengeance. If Liara, breathless next to her, is any indication, she feels the same. It's impossible to get a clean shot in. Shepard and Vasir are like two raging titans engaged in a flat out brawl.

The restaurant-goers outside of Hotel Azure have long since gone running for shelter. The ground is dotted with red and purple blood. It would be impossible to get in close without being blasted back. It isn't as if she's never fought a vanguard—but never like these two. Their primal screams and grunts of exertion are the only thing that can be heard. The foundation is cracked, the ground torn open as if by a minor earthquake.

Vasir manages to get some space and fire off a shot from her Acolyte. Like that, Shepard's barrier is gone. If she's afraid, she doesn't show it. Her omni-blade comes out and with a dodge and a swipe, Vasir's hand falls to the ground, still clenching the Acolyte. Shepard charges again, burying a knee in her gut and then slamming it into her face while she's hunched over. Vasir folds over backwards, collapsing to the ground.

Miranda and Liara run to them. "End of the line, Vasir," Shepard growls. Purple blood oozes out of Vasir's arm, her face bruised and swollen. "A Spectre working for the Shadow Broker. You're barely a step above Saren."

"Fuck you," Vasir spits, sliding back, trying to prop herself to a sitting. She grips her bleeding stump with the other hand. Shepard follows her movement with narrowed eyes. Vasir will live. Rather, she would live, but Miranda knows Shepard won't allow it. "I'm saving lives. As many as you! You're with a terrorist organization and you're judging me?" she coughs. Liara looks at her curiously, her features softening somewhat but not enough to forgive her, to spare her. "You're not better than me."

Shepard stoops beside her. "I'm not." She says softly. "It's too bad, Vasir. You're good. We could have worked together. I'm not better than you. Chances are I've done things a whole hell of a lot worse than you have. Yeah, I work for Cerberus. They brought me back. I owe them. Some of them aren't even all that bad. I'd say it's about on par with working for the Shadow Broker. You do what you need to do to get things _done_. I respect that. You hadn't come after Liara, I could have let it go. You could have disappeared. But you did. You _fucked_ yourself." The omni-blade is out again and before Miranda can blink it's buried in Vasir's stomach.

Vasir emits a small sound as Shepard drags the blade up, blood spilling over her hands, over her armor. Liara's face softens before her eyes go hard. She turns away from the sight. A shame, Miranda thinks. Shepard's face is at ease. Peaceful.

* * *

Shepard gives her the tour. She is somewhat nervous, which Liara doesn't understand. At times she trips over her words. She breaks too often into those infrequent smiles Liara rarely saw before. The _Normandy SR-2_ has been upgraded greatly. The crewmembers are cheerful and friendly. Shepard tried to talk on Illium. Liara, so focused on getting onto the _Normandy_ and starting the course for Hagalaz, refused to engage in the conversation.

Shepard was notably angry. Miranda kept her distance and she and Liara exchanged glances, trying to pretend the other was not there. The _Normandy_ could not arrive soon enough as she and Shepard stood at a standstill in tense silence.

Shepard introduces her to the squad. Some, like Miranda, she's met before. Others she hasn't. But as Shepard makes introductions, Liara puts faces to names. There's Kelly. Samara. Jack. Liara wonders if Shepard had been fucking the convict when she brought her the first time or only turned to her after the fact. She sent all those emails.

Liara isn't sure that she's angry. There's some of that. Mostly she's emptied of emotion, left hollow. For two years she has fought to be emotionless. She can't let the walls down now. The Shadow Broker is still out there. Feron remains imprisoned—if she's lucky.

She and Shepard had something of a rocky start. She made a fool of herself and Liara was never sure if Shepard was interested in Staff Lieutenant Alenko. There were many miscommunications along the way. Some of them her own, she can admit that. But Shepard is unconventional, unpredictable, impossible to read. The first time Shepard kissed her, Liara thought she'd imagined it. She worried it was only a game to the Commander, who had a reputation for breaking hearts.

Shepard's words are wonderful. The emotion in her voice seems real. Yet actions speak louder. They tell Liara that her mourning may have been for nothing. Liara once again has to push the thoughts away. More introductions and reunions. Tali has grown quickly in two years. She has a different way of carrying herself. Donnelly and Daniels are like a bickering old couple. Liara hears them whispering to each other about her relationship to Shepard when they exit Engineering. Daniels reminds Donnelly to mind his own damn business. Liara smiles but Shepard glares back at them.

They step into the elevator and Shepard slams a fist into the emergency brake as soon as they're between floors. She's trapped them. Liara stares at the numbers on the elevator panel. "You have got to look at me," Shepard says. Liara blinks and looks at her. There are flecks of blood on her face from her earlier encounter with Vasir. She's pale and raw with emotion, her hazel eyes shifting to bluer than usual. "We need to talk." Liara licks her lips. "We've got time until we get to Hagalaz. Come to my cabin. _Talk_ with me. Please."

Liara can't swallow the knot in her throat. She nods instead. Shepard hits the button on the panel and the elevator ascends again. Shepard waits until Liara steps out on the cabin floor to follow after her.

The cabin isn't where it used to be. It was where Miranda's office now is. Liara considers space specific memory. Everything's different now. She looks at the fish in the tank and back to Shepard. "It looks better than before." Her framed picture on the desk catches her attention. Liara's breath hitches. Guilt bubbles inside of her. Has she been cruel to Shepard? Is it the reason she has turned to debauchery? "I know you don't agree with what I'm doing. Feron's important to me." Shepard grimaces. "I don't know how much Miranda has told you about… how… Cerberus got your body." Shepard arches her eyebrows in question. "It's a long story. I'll make it short. I was told by Feron that your body had been recovered. The Shadow Broker was looking to give it to the Collectors." Even voicing the plan aloud is enough to momentarily paralyze her. "I had…objections. But as you might understand, standing up to the Blue Suns and the Shadow Broker is no easy task. I wasn't then what I am now. When Miranda offered to help me recover your body… When they said they could bring you back, I couldn't say no." Her voice wilts, fading away. "I gave you to them. I gave you to Cerberus. I couldn't stand the thought of the last time I saw you being…" she thinks of the body in the pod. Unrecognizable. Just tissue with hints of a human form. Liara had fallen to the floor in tears during transport. She takes a slow, deep breath. She can't look at her.

"Liara… hey." She goes to her, palms her face. Her hand is warm now, solid. "It's all right. I was…pissed off before. Lost. But none of that matters anymore. I don't give a damn that you gave me to Cerberus. They brought me back. _You_ brought me back. And if I'm alive another day to see you, to be with you… anything's worth that. Anything."

Liara's eyes sting. She curls her fingers around Shepard's hand, drawing it away from her face. She holds it briefly before releasing it. She faces the photograph Shepard has framed of her. "I know what you've been doing. I know about Kelly and Samara. I know about Jack. Goddess knows who else there is." Her voice is detached. The air is still. "You say such… tender things. But there's no softness to you. All you have are words. Empty words. I was naïve before. I believed you, Jane." She looks at her. Shepard ducks her head shamefully, her cheeks red. She reaches for her. Liara pulls away. "I look at you and… sometimes it's easy. And sometimes, when I let myself think of it, I can't stand the sight of you."

Shepard's fingers curl and uncurl. Her lower lip juts out slightly in a pout, perhaps. It trembles. Shepard swallows. "I thought we weren't going to talk about any of this until after Hagalaz," she says lightly but there is an unsteadiness to her voice. Liara watches her coldly. "I have been so angry at you," she starts. Liara waits. "I should be fucking _furious_. _Cerberus_?" She shakes her head. "I was dead. When I went to you it was as if it didn't even matter. _I_ didn't even matter." Liara won't argue with her. How Shepard could believe that she doesn't care is beyond her. Shepard stops. Shrugs. "It doesn't matter. None of it matters." She paces. Wipes her face with her hand. "I admit it. I've screwed around."

"You didn't admit anything until I told you I knew," Liara retorts. "Would you have said anything? Would you?" she demands.

Shepard shakes her head, looking more lost by the second. "I don't know." There's a beat. "I wanted to. I wanted to hurt you." Liara laughs bitterly. "But I thought… if you knew… if you knew and it didn't bother you it would kill me." She takes Liara's wrist. "If you only knew what you reduce me to." Liara yanks her arm but can't get it loose. "If you only knew how you destroy me." Liara gives another solid yank of her arm. She doesn't get it free until Shepard lets her go.

"I don't want to talk about this now," Liara says. "We've already said too much. I will not let you emotionally compromise me before we meet the Shadow Broker. I know how you pushed and teased me before. You're not mine anymore, Commander. And I'm not yours. Whatever you think there's left to talk about can wait." The words and use of rank strike. Shepard looks away from her.

Liara fills with pride and regret. In the end, is she any better than Shepard?

* * *

Alchera makes Noveria seem warm. The shuttle door groans open. Grace immediately numbs from the cold. She puts her helmet on and steps outside. Snow spirals down lazily. Everything is a pale blue and white. Overhead she spots three moons. She mentally recalls their names: Uluru, Wandjina and Baiame, size and distance, surface temperatures before forcing herself to move on.

Frost crunches beneath her boots. The space is wide and open. The sky is pulsing with stars. There is wreckage everywhere. Grace hears screaming ringing through her mind. Fire. Stars. She looks up. There are stars but no ball of fire. She breathes unsteadily. The air is thin. Her breathing sounds far away.

There's a M35 Mako. It's relatively intact. Grace goes to it, hating the piece of shit on principle. Impossible to control, always flipping itself around. Wrex thought it was a riot. _Who's Wrex?_ Grace remembers moments later. The dead krogan. He isn't here. He died on Virmire.

What's left here is another lifetime. It's a hell of a crash. How did Shepard escape? Were the rumors of her death greatly exaggerated? Did she do something to trick them all into thinking she had expired? Grace rethinks the word. She doesn't like 'expired'. It implies that it's only a certain amount of time before something goes bad and needs to be disposed of. According to Hope, that's Jane Shepard. The wind whips frost around. _Jesus fuck it's cold._ Negative thirty-two Celsius. She takes a stab at what the real-feel is with wind chill and moves through the landscape contemplating any possible assassination of Jane Shepard. She told Hope she would because it seemed important to her mental well-being.

Striking her down because Hope had a bad day doesn't seem fair. Or valid. Maybe Hope was in a mood. And because of it asked her to assassinate Commander Jane Shepard. Grace smiles sardonically thinking of it. And while she's on the subject of unlikely hypotheses she may as well venture that Hope will change their plans and suggest they live the rest of their days as pacifists.

Grace knows she's adept at killing. And she can acknowledge that she's a strong biotic. But killing Commander Shepard? There's no real reason to do it outside of Hope's request. She doesn't want her life. Yet here she is freezing her ass off for the sake of the Shepard Nostalgia Tour. Did Liara watch the _Normandy_ go down? Did her heart break? Did she feel the air pulled out of her lungs as surely as it was pulled out of hers? Shepard's, she corrects.

Grace frowns. She doesn't pay attention to the burning in her lungs. It must be psychosomatic. It's speculation. Shepard's death was a rumor. Even the rumors don't say what happened, though the remains of the _Normandy_ give some indication. What happened to the ship? She finds the bridge, the ceiling of the ship ripped open. Her body tenses painfully. For what feels like eternity she's dizzy and weak. She puts a hand to one of the sharp metal edges that made up the backbone of the infrastructure. Eventually it passes and she moves up to the pilot's chair. She stays there for a long time resentful and melancholy before leaving.

She walks around, spotting uniformed corpses, sad, cold and alone. She stoops by one to touch his service tags. _Pressly, Charles._ No time to get to an escape pod. She wonders if he died on impact. There's a datapad next to him and she reaches tentatively for it. His eyes and mouth are open as if mid-scream. He's so iced over Grace can't close his eyes. She touches his shoulder gingerly, some affection for the stranger stirring within.

She never boarded the _Normandy_ but the crash site fills her with a profound sadness. She can imagine what it might look like. Dark corridors, curved stairs. A mass effect core, maybe. There are no records or photographs available of the inside of the _Normandy_. Grace doesn't anticipate she'll see the inside of it anytime soon, if ever.

She turns her attention to the datapad, hard to navigate with her gloved hands. The data's mostly corrupt. Pressly questions Shepard's fondness for aliens. He doesn't trust them. Grace felt much the same in the beginning but has of late discovered that aliens are no more unethical or morally bankrupt than humans. She doesn't buy that Hope believes any of it either. Hope's too smart to think that way. The truth is that facts aren't on the side of xenophobes.

Grace hears a noise behind her and whips around, Paladin in hand. How did someone sneak up on her? This place is unsettling. She wonders if she should drop the datapad or chuck it at the soldier to distract him before blowing him away.

"Shepard?" It's a male voice. Grace frowns. She drops the datapad and approaches, hearing her breath sound too hollow in her ears, fogging her helmet. Her helmet fogged before. She floated in the stars. The jarring, non-memory memory leaves her momentarily breathless even as she approaches the man in the black hardsuit. "It's me," he lifts his arms, "Kaidan."

"Kaidan?" she keeps the pistol up. She remembers his voice before she remembers his face. It must be in what Shiala and Sha'ira gave her.

"Hey, look. Lower the gun all right? I'm not here to make any trouble."

Grace spots a Phalanx at his side. Kaidan Alenko. A biotic. It's not the gun she has to worry about. The records indicate he's an exceptional biotic, enough to give matriarchs a run for their money. Grace doesn't want any trouble either. She does a visual search of the perimeter for what she can use if he decides he does want to make trouble. When she's found what would make suitable cover, what would be enough to cut him in half she holsters the gun. "What are you doing here?" she asks, attempting to make her voice casual.

"I got a tip from official channels. I'm guessing I'm here for the same reason you are," he takes a breath, shaking his head at the mess of metal, crates and debris scattered throughout the area. "Ah, man." She looks at him. It's hard to gauge his emotions when he's helmeted though she'd question his sanity if he decided to remove his helmet. Frostbite would settle in minutes. "We had a lot of good times on her," he says with a nod to a giant flank of the ship, NORMANDY emblazoned on the side. "Being here like this… brings me back."

"Yeah," she says, hoping it's enough of a contribution to the conversation. Still, some part of her understands his sentiment. She'll be damned if she knows how. Kaidan stoops at Pressly's body, shaking his head, muttering about it being a 'damn shame' before rising. Weapons lockers are littered haphazardly in the snow. They stare at them for too long. "It's uh—it's been a while." Who the hell knows when the last time Shepard and Kaidan Alenko met? On the _Normandy_? Afterward?

"Shepard…" There's a beat. "Uh—mind talking in the shuttle? Kind of cold out here." Grace nods slowly and they make their way back to where the UT-47 Kodiak he arrived in is stationed. As soon as the shuttle door closes he removes his helmet, sweating despite the cold. He's handsome. An arch of his thick eyebrow, suspicion playing on his features and Grace tentatively removes her helmet. He looks at her for a long time. "You look better than last time I saw you."

"Wish I could say the same."

He laughs. "I can't remember the last time we laughed together. Look." He considers. "About Horizon." Horizon. Grace recalls spending some time in a safe house there. Does he know about that? He can't. Her identity—whatever it is—can't have been compromised yet. "I've…been going over what happened. You know—I've… composed a few emails. I just couldn't send them." He closes his eyes, leaning back into the chair. There's a picture of the _Normandy_ tacked beside the pilot's seat. Right beside it is a picture of her—Shepard—and Kaidan, Ashley Williams. Shepard's arms are wrapped around them, smiling brightly. She tries not to stare. "Conversations like these are better had face to face. I owe you that much…" he looks at her. Grace waits. "I said some things I shouldn't have. It's just—after everything we'd been through together… Sovereign… Ash… we _saw_ those labs. We _saw_ what Cerberus did. I—I just can't believe you're working with them—"

 _Cerberus_? "Kaidan, I'm not—" she catches herself, swallows the words. For all intents and purposes, Kaidan believes that she's Jane Shepard. A wrong word could undo everything. She shuts her mouth with difficulty.

"I know what you said. Maybe you think they've changed, Shepard but I don't. If they're working for you—fine. But how long do you think that'll last?" He asks. Grace furrows her eyebrows. He takes it as encouragement, as if she's finally understanding him. "They brought you back." Back from where, Grace wonders? "You feel like you owe them, agh." He scratches his head. "I'm saying the exact same thing. I just want you to be _careful_." Kaidan reaches across and takes her hand. Grace looks down at it and then at him. Embarrassed, he pulls it away. "Tali sent me an email a while back? Said your plan was to load up the Cerberus cruiser with bombs and not look back."

Grace smiles thinly. "That's the plan."

"Sounds like you." He nods, smiling wryly at her. "Though I'd hate to see her go down again. Ah. I'm just being sentimental. It may have some improvements and look just like the old _Normandy_ but it never will be. We had a lot of good memories on that ship. It can't just be replaced." Grace frowns gently. "Anyway. That's what I wanted to say. We can get back out there." With a small hiss the shuttle door comes open. The Alliance surely has access to better vehicles. His shuttle opens with ease instead of the groaning and screeching of the shuttle she touched down in. "Where'd you leave Cerberus?" he asks, slamming the door shut behind him.

 _In pieces on Therum_. She bites her tongue. Shepard's working for Cerberus? Shepard's working for Cerberus. Did Hope know? Why not tell her? The revelation fills her with so much anger she doesn't notice the cold anymore. She wanted a reason to take down Shepard. Now she has one. Did Shepard order the hit on Hope? Did she send Kai Leng after her? But why? Does she know Hope's plan? Does she know Hope intends for Grace to replace her? "I needed a break from those assholes for a while," she says. "They shouldn't be here. Not this place. It's…personal." She's surprised she means the words.

Kaidan nods, the answer suitable. The talk is nerve-wracking but not as much as her talk with Liara. It's strange. They've spoken only once but it feels like many times. "Anderson wanted me to stop by. I heard you got this intel months ago? Guess we all thought you weren't making time for the Alliance these days." Grace doesn't have any answer for him that would be authentic. She doesn't know what he's talking about. She remains silent. "We lost a lot of good men and women. At least with this, we can give some closure to their families."

"It's the least we can do."

"I may not like who you're working with but I know how busy you are. I'll talk with Anderson and Hackett. Let them know what we found here."

She thanks him. She'd have no idea how to do those things on her own. They keep walking, Kaidan identifying bodies, sometimes only able to do so by their tags. Some bodies are too badly burned to recognize. They collect tags until they've found everyone they can.

They exchange paltry parting words, shaking hands firmly and walking in opposite directions. She's nearly to the shuttle when he calls out to her. "Hey, Shepard. Don't forget this." He chucks the object and she catches it.

An N7 helmet. Still intact, somehow. _Her_ helmet. _Shepard's helmet_. A panicked restlessness fills her again. She can't speak so she raises a hand, a poor indication of her 'gratitude'. She enters the shuttle and shuts the door behind her, whipping her helmet off and taking gasping breaths of air. It's not real. Whatever panic she's feeling it isn't real. It's psychosomatic. It's all psychosomatic. She sits for a long time, wheezing for air, fighting the resentful tears burning behind her eyelids. When she's finally able to breathe she looks at Shepard's N7 helmet sitting beside her. She lifts it carefully. Moments later she calmly pulls it over her head.


	13. The Shadow Broker

Miranda's massaging her neck when Jacob enters the office. Jacob isn't surprised when she immediately ceases the motion, folding her arms on the desk and smiling up at him instead. Anyone would be dazzled by the smile, by her perfection—but Jacob knows her. He sees when she's putting on a show. He sees the hint of dark circles under her eyes. He's never seen her look so tired.

"Heard you're headed to Hagalaz," he places a cup of coffee, resting on a saucer, in front of her. Her smile is puzzled as her eyes wander back to him. "That's from my personal supply. Decided to stock up when we hit the Citadel a few weeks back. Gardner's stuff isn't fit for human consumption."

"Considerate as always," Miranda says with a grateful nod in his direction. Her fingers smooth over the saucer. Jacob sits across from her without being invited. A small line creases her brow and then it's gone. Miranda doesn't need coffee. She can get by on less sleep than any other human. A benefit of her genetic tailoring. Some time ago she told him about her penchant for drinking the substance, born in some attempt at a teenage rebellion. "Thank you."

"How's the hunt for the Shadow Broker?"

"Oh, you know. The usual hordes trying to kill us, a particularly brutal asari Spectre, our dear Commander Shepard and Liara T'Soni. She's toughened up a bit since we last crossed paths with her. You missed some of Garrus' rapier wit. You're lucky to stay onboard."

"Lucky, yeah," he shakes his head. "You know I don't like to sit on my ass."

"No. You've always been a man of action."

A small silence passes. Miranda drinks delicately. A man of action. One that wasn't enough. It was his decision to end things between them. He knows Miranda isn't perfect. Often times she's too critical, overlooking small strides made in projects, during missions. She keeps her heart sealed under lock and key. She was kind but never open. Jacob used to wonder if the fault lay in his simplicity. Maybe she needed more—more of a challenge, a more patient man who was willing to wait things out. "How's Shepard?"

"Not bad," she says, a bit of surprise in her words. "She's extremely capable, on the battlefield anyway."

"We knew chasing down Collectors wasn't going to be easy. Kasumi's loss was a mistake, but she's gotten us this far. Freedom's Progress, Horizon, the Collector ship—trap. None of that was easy. I don't think we could have done it without her."

"I wasn't expecting you to be an advocate for her. You make fair points."

Miranda lived in a lab for two years, breathing, living and sleeping Shepard. The project was everything. She never made mention of the enormity that was at stake and aside from the rare cutting comment about Wilson, she didn't complain. It wasn't only her reputation that was at stake with Project Lazarus—it was the survival of the human race. Jacob has witnessed her react to small shifts in well-established plans, things that aren't mistakes, that can't be predicted, and turn to ice as she efficiently came up with alternative solutions. Jacob can't imagine the pressure she's under from, yes, the Illusive Man, but mostly herself. If she suspects anything is off about Shepard, the strain she's under must be intense. But she doesn't complain. Never to him.

"Not everyone can live up to your standards of perfection." Jacob won't take the words back, even as she turns the handle of the coffee mug in the opposite direction and says nothing. "Not even you." His brow furrows. "I know things have been tough." He's never seen Miranda distraught. He doubts he ever will. The Oriana situation is as close as it gets. She didn't come to him about it and he won't bring it up now. "But you can handle anything that gets thrown your way. Including Commander Shepard."

Miranda smiles tiredly, leaning back against the chair. "Tell that to the Illusive Man." It's a slip and they both know it. Jacob makes an excuse and she lets him.

* * *

Morinth watches Shepard stare angrily at the stars. In the beginning she visited more frequently. Since the death of Kasumi Goto her visits have dropped considerably, and she offers only curt nods when they pass one another in the hallways. Morinth smiles to herself, thinking of how Shepard nearly bit her head off when she joked that Shepard knocked Kasumi off for having once expressed an inkling that Morinth wasn't who she pretended to be.

When she met Shepard at Afterlife she was _strong_ , flush with power. Morinth wanted her, craved her. Now and then she'll toy with the idea of having Shepard, melding with her. It would be euphoria to taste her, absorb her essence. A part of her wonders if the high would be too much, send her into overload. But she doesn't buy it. Shepard is a person, like any other, not half as immortal as she thinks she is. She should know that lesson particularly well. Morinth would kill her if they melded. She wonders if her mother would approve or disapprove, all things considered.

Now Shepard is wilting. Shepard wanted her once. Morinth saw in her apartment that seducing her would be an easy thing. Does Shepard know how pathetic she looks? She rests an arm against the glass of the observatory, head bowed. When she first came in, her eyes were glassy. Not devoid of emotion, like the husks Morinth leaves behind. They were suffused with feeling, too much of it. Morinth asked questions and Shepard, too stiff, breathing too quickly, was unable to respond.

Morinth rises from the couch, her black heels clacking loudly on the floor like a death knell. She stands behind Shepard, bringing her hands to her shoulders. Shepard lifts her head slightly as Morinth presses to her back. Shepard's body is hard. It's difficult to not feel a little excited. "The little asari did a number on you, didn't she?" Shepard tenses, the white of her Cerberus shirt going taut. Morinth brings her lips to Shepard's ear. They graze there. "She may be Benezia's daughter but she doesn't have her brains." Her hands slide down Shepard's arms. "Only a fool would turn you away."

Shepard only responds with a raspy, tired sigh.

"Take me to Hagalaz with you," this is the reason she invited Shepard into the room to begin with. Shepard turns, her back to the glass this time. Morinth keeps her arms to either side of her. She can read the question in Shepard's eyes and she smiles. "Come on, you know Miranda doesn't really have your back. I do." Plus, the Shadow Broker would make for an exquisite meld. The power to be gleaned from him—or her… would be a boon.

Shepard's eyes are so glassy and clean, unfeeling, that Morinth is momentarily reminded of her mother. She laughs lightly when Shepard takes her arms and reverses their positions, pushing her against the glass. "It's not a good idea. She knows about me and Samara."

Morinth arches an eyebrow. "You and Samara?" There's a moment. "Why Shepard. Did you take advantage of my mother's justicar oath?" she scoffs. "Serves her right for living under such a rigid existence. People like her need rules, morals, codes. They wouldn't know how to function without them."

Shepard is unreadable. Was she expecting anger? Indignation? "I can't screw this up. You're _not_ going. You'll stay away from her while she's onboard."

"That's not fair, Shepard. There aren't many purebloods around. Maybe I get lonely too. It'd be nice to connect. I'm sure there's more than a few things we share in common."

Shepard's only response is a physical one. The air crackles with biotic energy. It's a threat, Morinth knows, Shepard wrapped in tendrils that ebb and pulse dangerously. They look like snakes, writhing and ready to strike. Morinth smiles, lifting her hands in defeat, letting her walk away.

* * *

"Hey, Liara. You need to try this." With great effort Joker gets to his feet. Liara feels a pang of sympathy for the trials and tribulations a man with Vrolik syndrome must experience but he doesn't seem to share her reservations. "Come on, sit down, sit down," he tells her excitedly. Liara smiles wanly, trying to shake the last vestiges of her conversation with Shepard. She sits on the pilot's seat. "Leather…! Nice, huh?" His fingers trail down over the material as if it were a lover. Liara pales slightly. "I'll give it to these Cerberus bastards, they know how to build ships!"

"That you continue to be impressed after all this time speaks to the craftsmanship of the Cerberus R&D teams," EDI pops up. Liara glances at the holographic representation as Joker scowls. Having enough of standing, he waves Liara away to reclaim his seat. "Welcome aboard the _Normandy_ , Liara T'Soni. If you have any need of assistance, please don't hesitate to ask."

"Ah, what does she need you for? She was on the _Normandy_ long before you were," Joker bats an arm at EDI, harmlessly swatting through her. He squares his shoulders against the seat, looking back up at Liara and smiling. "Man, look at you. Never pegged you for a black lipstick kind of girl." He starts laughing, raising his hand as if prepared to tell a joke he found too humorous to tell with a straight face. "Garrus told me that some crazy asari kicked the Commander's ass to the ground and you didn't even flinch! Just kept hauling ass after her. Stone cold, Liara! Kind of hot," he adds as an aside.

Liara frowns gently. How often will that be brought up? If Shepard had done the same no one would question her. "I couldn't lose sight of her," she shrugs gently. The EDI hologram is still as if listening to the conversation. She still doesn't trust Cerberus and is hesitant to speak in front of the AI. "How has she been?"

"I told you! Purring like a dream," he reaches out and pets the haptic interface gingerly. Liara reasons that he needs a girlfriend. He looks at her, arching an eyebrow. She arches her brow in return and he scratches his beard, removes the hat, scratches his head, puts the hat back on. "Oh. You mean, Shepard? Scary as ever! But we need that kind of thing around the Collectors, right? They're not the type you can pull punches with." He clears his throat. "So uh—are you two—" A withering look silences him. "Why doesn't anyone tell me anything? I'm only the pilot that gets people in and out of their missions," he grumbles.

Liara leaves him. The trip to Hagalaz is taking longer than anticipated. She wouldn't put it past Shepard to have instructed Joker to take 'the scenic route.' Things were left tense between them. Liara wonders if she can truly be angry at her. Being brought back from the dead must be a traumatic experience. She was handed to an organization she despises and doesn't trust. The only ones to stand with her are Garrus, Tali, Joker. She must feel so alone.

Shepard always had a reputation for breaking hearts. Liara supposes this time it was her turn. Shepard asked her to join her and Liara declined. She was not honest about how she felt even if Shepard was honest with her. She didn't return her messages. Perhaps it's to be expected.

The feeling gnaws at her from the recesses of her mind but Liara doesn't allow herself to process it. She only wishes there were some space where she could be on her own until they arrived at their destination. The _Normandy_ is bigger than it was before. Brighter. Liara takes the elevator to the third floor. She sees Chakwas in the distance, a grey-haired balding man scowling at a pot on the stove, and the med-bay where she once spent her time.

She ignores all of it, heading instead to the room that was once Shepard's cabin and is now Miranda's. She walks in uninvited, not caring for protocol. There isn't much time. The room is larger than it once was. A spacious bed rests at the back. Liara wonders if Shepard has spent time in it. She has acted as if she hates Miranda Lawson but brought her along to chase after the Shadow Broker. Shepard has never let hatreds get in the way of bedding attractive partners.

"Dr. T'Soni," Miranda says amiably. She nods at a seat but Liara doesn't take it. She waits for the door to slide shut behind her but even then Liara is left without words. "I'm sure things look somewhat different than you remember. Our uniforms may differ from those worn by your SR-1 crewmates, but our mission is essentially the same: stop the Collectors, stop the Reapers. Won't you sit?"

"I'm fine. Thank you." She crosses her arms gently. "I… appreciate your help in this matter. You know better than anyone the trouble the Shadow Broker caused for me. For us." Miranda gives one solitary nod. "Two years later and he remains a thorn in my side."

"Not for much longer."

"You're right." But the words give her no satisfaction. She takes the seat now that it's no longer being offered and crosses one leg over the other. "I must admit, I thought it foolish to think you could really bring her back. Yet here she is, alive and as frustrating as ever." Miranda's eyes brighten lightly though Liara doubts it's at the compliment as much as an agreement over Shepard's personality. "I worried at first. Especially when I first saw her again. She looked terrible," she admits.

"Perfectly normal," Miranda quickly jumps in. "The implants are experimental. At this point they're affected by attitudes and dispositions. Hers … wasn't the most pleasant. No doubt her circumstances caused her significant stress," she talks more to herself than Liara, "resulting in a rejection of the implants. As you can see, she's looking better now."

"Yes. But worse for wear this time around than the last time she visited," Liara says. Miranda's brow furrows thoughtfully before whatever brought the concern to her face is wiped away. "Thank you. For taking care of her." Miranda taps a finger on the desk gently and then nods. "As you may know, I keep a close eye on all matters on Illium. Some months ago there was a departure with an asari named Enyala, a man named Niket and a young woman. Your name was mentioned." Liara searches her face but sees nothing that would indicate she'd heard anything out of the ordinary. "Whatever the situation… I hope that it was resolved to your liking."

The ship jostles and both women stand. { _Uh, looks like we've got a buttload of space rubble,_ } Joker says over the intercom. { _I suggest everyone strap down and hold on tight until I can get us through._ }

Liara exits the room without another word. Shepard is in the hallway, appearing unfazed by the heavy rocking of the ship. Liara thinks back to the last time they were together like this. It isn't all too different from the last time she truly saw her alive. Their eyes lock and they take unsteady steps to one another, stopping when they reach a shared destination—a metal column with discreet handles on it. _They really did think of everything,_ Liara thinks with some bitterness. She grasps a handle. Shepard is opposite her, a hand securely on Liara's arm to steady her. "I'm fine, Shepard," she doesn't bother trying to shake the arm, knowing that attempting to do so will only send her sprawling backwards.

Shepard releases her. "Have it your way, T'Soni."

Liara resents herself for the disappointment she feels.

* * *

Grace walks ahead with a determined bounce in her step. Hope shakes her head and follows. Ilos is a sweltering ruin. The remaining ruins are only shadows of their former selves. Ilos isn't quite as daunting as it initially was when Shepard came years ago. Asari have set up camps to study the planet, hoping to find salvageable technology, perhaps study the construction of mass relays. Grace spotted a massive frigate while circling the skies for a landing zone. Hope instructed her to steer clear.

They landed the shuttle a good distance from the campsites. Grace bored her on the trip to Ilos, going on about Liara T'Soni's Prothean papers, about Protheans in general, delving into obscure, mind-numbing facts she somehow found terribly interesting. Hope understands the value of the graybox but sometimes wishes she hadn't implanted her with it. Of all the things she'd expected for Shepard – Grace, Shepard, _bloody hell –_ being a nerd wasn't one of them.

"Think there are geth here?" Grace asks.

"Why would there be geth?"

Grace pulls the N7 helmet from her head, shaking her shoulder length brown hair out and tying it up. There are streaks of red in it, presumably from spending an inordinate amount of time in the sun. She holds the helmet at her side. She's taken to the helmet, despite the superiority of the one she'd previously used. Hope has asked why she wears it but has gotten no real response. Hope mulls over her growing secrecy. "Wasn't it overrun by geth once?"

Yes but Hope doesn't know how Grace would know. She hasn't told her. It's possible she's scoured the extranet searching for clues of Shepard's visit two years ago. The information would be classified. Hope has taught her a few tricks, simple hacks that might be used in a pinch. Grace has taken to studying the material while listening to classical music. Hope prefers heavy, pulsing beats to composers who have been dead for centuries but doesn't ask her to stop her ways. She's inclined to think that Grace might go ahead and do what she wants even if Hope were to ask. "I doubt there'd be asari camped out if that were true," she says. All close to the Conduit.

Grace nods, expression thoughtful before excitement permeates her features. She runs over to a grotesque statue of some bizarre creature sitting. Hope scoffs softly. She's like a child. Hope thinks of her skillful mouth. Well. Not always. "Look at this!" She pulls at the massive vines that veil the stone monument, pulling it free to better look at it. It's even more grotesque. Its body is long and hunched over, bald head bowed with what looks curiously like tentacled beards. "Inusannon!" Hope waits, hoping there will be a translation for her gibberish. "They lived here before the Protheans," Grace tells her good-naturedly. She runs her hand along the statue. "This is great."

"Riveting. Let's get going."

Instead of pouting, Grace jauntily leaves the side of the statue and snaps a picture of it with her omni-tool, grinning at Hope, trying to get a picture of her (she quickly moves out of the frame) before they move along. It's hot and muggy. Hope feels her hair beginning to curl. Just once she'd like to go somewhere where she wasn't freezing to death or threatened with heat stroke. Grace is too starry-eyed to be bothered, the only indication that she may be hot is a swipe to her forehead and neck with the back of her hand.

"Shepard came to Ilos to track down Saren," Hope tells her without much enthusiasm, the stifling heat sucking away any energy she may have. "She brought Garrus and your Liara T'Soni." Grace glances back at her curiously. "Geth _had_ in fact overrun the planet. They were working in allegiance with Saren who was after the Conduit. It turned out to be a back door to the Citadel."

"Sounds handy."

"For the Reapers."

Grace frowns. They wander for several more hours, Grace taking more pictures of the landscapes and architecture. Hope muses over Grace, who was inordinately tense prior to arriving on Ilos. Truthfully she's grateful to see her lively as she is now. She seems to grow more sullen by the day, more introspective. She once chattered incessantly and plied her with questions. Recently she only looks at her, as if any answers Hope might give would be unsatisfactory, as if she is content to figure matters out for herself.

They traverse a too-long tunnel before Grace snakes to an opening on the right hand side. Hope curses her under her breath. She's like a toddler. Perhaps a leash would be beneficial. She smirks at the thought and follows her down a lengthy hallway to what looks like a stone podium. The path ends there. Hope looks around her. Stone walls rise high, thick vines and dried out heavy branches spread out like veins on the surface. "Is there a reason we're here?" Hope asks her.

Grace touches the podium, kneeling before it, walking around and tapping it again before looking dispirited. She shakes her head. "No reason. Let's go." Her voice is a soft, frustrated growl.

They're nearing the shuttle when static snaps, breaching their omni-tools. They stare at their instruments but nothing else happens. Hope shrugs. They keep walking when static bursts again.

{ _Mayday, mayday! This is Lieutenant Kurin of the Divination! We are under attack, I repeat, we are under attack! Our group consists mostly of unarmed scientists. Unknown shuttles with armed soldiers have arrived. We are on Ilos and requesting immediate assistance! }_

The coordinates are given and then there's nothing.

Hope looks at Grace, who's already looking off in the direction of the large frigate they previously saw. The coordinates match. Grace walks with purpose to the shuttle. " _No_." Grace keeps walking. Hope follows after her, glaring as she sits purposefully on the pilot seat, prepping the shuttle for takeoff. Hope takes hold of her shoulder and pulls. "We can't risk you. They're asari. They're not our concern."

Grace narrows her eyes and yanks the helmet on, pulls her arm free. "We're going."

* * *

The violent rocking of the UT-47 Kodiak is enough to make her stomach do flips. Shepard can't remember the last time she ate. She's been far too preoccupied with Liara, who is currently glaring at the shuttle door, itching to get out and onto the Shadow Broker ship. Miranda has kept to herself, looking a little bored if not mildly irritated at having to be near them while they're in obvious conflict.

"It's probably going to be more of the same," Shepard tells them, trying to ignore the way Liara's arm brushes against hers when the shuttle jostles suddenly. This is the eleventh time. "We cripple their shields, set off biotic detonations. Knock them off the goddamn ship if we can. I don't want to waste any more bullets on this shit."

"Aye aye, Commander," Miranda says lightly.

Is she making fun of her? Her eyes are boring into the back of her skull. Whenever Shepard glances back she's focused on some omni-tool search. Frowning, Shepard glances discreetly at Liara when she can. She thought dying screwed with her. It looks like it took a bigger toll on Liara than it did on her. Shepard can deal with implants. She can deal with the scars. She would give anything to restore whatever it is that Liara lost in the two years that she was gone. The spark in her eyes, the curiosity, her love. Shepard remembers how her cheeks would flush nearly purple when she was embarrassed, when Shepard looked at her, the first time they made love. There's no trace of humor or emotion in her anymore. Part of her is relieved that Liara is livid about her affairs. The other part is terrified that she'll never be able to make it up to her.

They begin the descent to the ship. Liara's arm knocks into her again. Twelve times. Shepard tries to catch her eye but Liara refuses to look at her. When the shuttle door opens, Shepard takes her arm. "We're going to get through this." She doesn't know if she means the mission or the mess their relationship is in. Is she kidding herself to think they're in one anymore? "I'm not giving this up."

"Let's get to Feron," and without waiting for another word she leaps off the shuttle, wavering in the vicious wind for an instant before landing safely. Shepard hadn't known she was holding her breath. She does a running jump, rolling on the landing, nearly losing her balance the moment she stands. Lightning cracks in the sky. Liara's arm shoots out, grabbing hold of her before she tumbles back. Shepard smiles. Liara averts her eyes. "I still need you."

"How sweet," Miranda says landing neatly beside them. Liara releases Shepard and steps back. Miranda primes the M-9 Tempest and moves ahead. "Let's get off this deathtrap, shall we?"

* * *

There's a host of dead asari littering the ground when Grace lands the shuttle. She quickly unbuckles her seat belt and gets to her feet. Hope is scowling beside her, checking weapons. The _Divination_ is a large vessel. Several unrecognized shuttles surround it. Grace picks up several lift and a few frag grenades, clipping them to her belt, leaving the majority of the frag grenades for Hope.

The air smells hot and rusty when the shuttle door opens. Hope slams a clip into the M-97 Viper before double-checking the M-11 Wraith. Grace unholsters the Paladin. "Cloak and cover me," Grace orders Hope. She doesn't look back.

Gunshots pepper the air. Grace hears panicked screaming and moves faster, dodging and weaving her way through the bodies. Purple blood trails down the mouth of an unseeing asari. Others only have part of their heads remaining. Scientists. She thinks of Liara T'Soni, suffering the same fate as these women have—victim to whatever force has come to end their lives.

She finds cover behind a stack of crates and gets a visual on some mercenaries. Some are asari with tech armor, gunning down scientists, shaking them for answers. She's nearly taken by surprise when one comes around the corner. Grace grabs her, slamming her to the ground. A flick of biotics with her wrist and she's snapped her neck. She doesn't recognize the three-point star that emblazons her armor, but Hope does. "Shadow Broker," she whispers fiercely, putting a hand on Grace's arm. "We don't need this. We can still leave."

Grace shakes off the hand. _The Shadow Broker_. The name sounds vaguely familiar, ominous. It doesn't matter. She runs ahead, sneaking behind one of the shuttles with its door open. There are five mercenaries inside laughing and having gulps of liquid from a canteen. Grace pulls the pin from a frag grenade and tosses it gently into the shuttle. She pulls the door shut biotically, hearing the mercenaries' shrieks before they're cut short by a muffled explosion.

The shuttle bursts into flame, black smoke billowing out. Cries of alarm sound and Grace hears mercenaries running towards her. She chucks a lift grenade at them when they're in sight. It goes off with a boom, sending them reeling in the air. It's then that she hears the sound of the sniper rifle, relieving the mercenaries of their heads, leaving their bodies to spin bloody designs on the ground before crashing with a thud.

She'll have to thank Hope for that later, as unlikely as it is that Hope will want to speak to her. The mercenaries are reckless. They likely didn't expect resistance. Unarmed scientists, was it? As she moves she hears the sound of the sniper rifle ringing sharply, and more desperate shouts from the mercenaries. _Stay cloaked, Hope._ She should have stopped long enough to tell her to leave if the situation got too hot, if something happened to her. She was zealous. It's pointless. Hope wouldn't leave without her, would she?

There's no time to think about it. An asari clad in black leathers drops down in front of her, wrapped in biotic power, M-8 Avenger assault rifle aimed squarely at her. "You're not dressed like them," she tells her.

"Put the gun down."

"No way. Do you know how many we've lost here today? In minutes?" The asari is a relatively young one with pink face markings along her brow and jawline, descending down to her neck. Grace can't quite make out the color of her skin. The endless orange cast of the sun bleeds into everything. "Tell me who you are." Her voice shakes but Grace doesn't know if it's from anger or nerves.

Grace bites her tongue. Hope has fired off three more shots. They don't have time to waste. "I'm Commander Shepard." The asari looks at her, unsure. Grace reluctantly removes the helmet, feeling herself grow sweaty and nauseous at the lie. What the hell can 'Grace' do for her now? How will it help the woman whose team is getting butchered? "I'm here to help."

"Commander Shepard," she says hastily. "You saved the _Destiny Ascension._ " Grace nods slowly. The asari lowers her gun. "All right. Goddess. I'm Lieutenant Kurin. I didn't expect anyone to hear my distress call. I can't believe my luck. With you at our side some of us might be able to make it out of here. I don't know who these guys are—"

Grace slips the helmet back on. "They're with the Shadow Broker."

"Shit. Why's he involved?" A flurry of shots and the two of them make a dash for some cover alongside the flank of the ship. Bullets ping off the metal exterior. "Asari are instructed in biotics since they're born. Unfortunately this team never went the way of being huntresses—or even dancers. Clients can get pretty nasty, you know," she swallows anxiously. "These scientists are pretty weak biotics, even by human standards. Uh—no offense. They didn't stand a chance."

"I'm assuming since you're here to guard them you know how to handle yourself."

"Yeah. You're a biotic too—if those ANN pieces and Illium stories are right." Her composure hardens, determination sparking in her blue eyes. "We'll set off some detonations. There's still a small team—" she says anxiously.

"We're going to get you and them out of here, Lieutenant," Grace gives her a few of her grenades. "If the Shadow Broker wants his people back, we'll send the bastards back in pieces."

Lieutenant Kurin smiles with relief. She gives a solid nod. Grace charges.

* * *

Miranda wonders if there's any way Cerberus could take over the Shadow Broker ship. Normally she'd have suggested it but haste is of the essence and she understands that Liara's task is delicate. It's likely Shepard would shoot the idea down regardless. Despite Shepard's jealousy she's agreed to release Feron.

The man on the slab is hardly the one Miranda remembers. She doesn't spend much time examining drells but the Feron she remembered was mischievous, his eyes seeming to glint despite the impossibility. He has aged after two years of captivity and torture. The contraption attached to him looks rigged to flood his nervous system with pain should he speak or struggle. He's pale and sweaty, growing more so when Shepard continues to plow him with questions.

Perhaps if he'd agreed to join Cerberus he wouldn't be in this position. She's hard pressed to find why he'd join a human survivalist organization—if he had, she wouldn't have trusted him. He worked for the Shadow Broker. But in the end they have him to thank for Shepard.

Shepard and Liara have alternated between bickering like an old couple and exchanging genuinely amusing banter. If Liara helps Shepard's state of mind, helps her focus then all the better for it. Liara must be under a good deal of stress as well. How else could she explain stating that Shepard looked worse for wear this time around? The last time Shepard went to Illium her body was rejecting the implants. Reaper technology at its finest, Miranda thinks dryly. Regardless, it got the job done and she and Cerberus succeeded where no other would.

Now they catch their breath. This brief moment with Feron is their only opportunity for respite after fighting through hordes of the Shadow Broker's soldiers. They may be closing in on him. Miranda rubs her shoulder. She took a bullet and it still itches from the medi-gel Shepard quite literally slapped onto her. Still, she's able to use her pistol so she can't complain too much. At least now Shepard isn't just staring after Liara like a lost puppy. She's also trying and failing to stop herself from glaring at Feron.

"He knows we're here," Liara says softly. "I'm afraid he'll hit a 'kill switch' and take him from us." She presses to the glass, peering at him. Miranda wonders if he grimaces because he heard the words.

"That's not going to happen," Shepard cocks her shotgun. "We'll get him and you out of here."

" _After_ we kill the Shadow Broker."

"Right, right. If the ship goes down, the Shadow Broker goes down with us," Shepard smiles wryly. "Anyone ever tell you your priorities are kind of screwed up, T'Soni?"

"Oh?" The irritation is clear in her voice. Liara crosses her arms but she's trying not to smile. "You're one to talk."

Miranda clears her throat. "Shall I go take care of the Shadow Broker while you finish…whatever this is up?" The Shadow Broker has got to be just about out of soldiers but that still leaves him to contend with. For all she knows he's got the room outfitted with turrets. Walking in could be an instant death sentence. Shepard glares at her. Miranda is surprised that she feels some small degree of pity for her. Miranda can't recall a time Shepard has looked so happy—lively—despite the clearly troubled situation between them. "Or you two could deal with the Broker while I try to extricate Feron from this…contraption?"

"Do it," Shepard says. "Unless T'Soni has an objection?"

"'T'Soni' does not. Let's go, Shepard."

Liara rushes ahead. Shepard walks backwards for a moment, smiling at Miranda before turning on her heel to chase after the asari. Miranda turns her attention towards Feron. The chair he's been strapped to is a mean one. Jack would argue that Cerberus has done far worse but what is Jack except a little girl who thinks she knows what's happened? She can't imagine the emotional trauma the woman has endured to believe the things that she does. She can't blame an entire organization for one rogue faction.

Miranda touches the glass window that separates her and Feron with a hand. Biotic energy pulses along the glass until it starts to crack little by little. Soon it's reduced to a clear mosaic. A swift push and it falls apart. She jumps to the other side and studies the chair Feron's attached to. There must be some way to disarm it. She brought Shepard back from the dead. She can figure out a simple trap.

"I'll have you out of here in no time," she tells him. Time is relative. After two years of torture it might not feel like any time at all. Or perhaps a moment of torture is never-ending.

* * *

Lieutenant Kurin is a fierce biotic and a skillful shot. It doesn't take her long to cast away any doubt she may have had. Together they mop up the remaining mercenaries, managing to save a dozen or so scientists. Grace is annoyed that one of the Shadow Broker's men—the surprisingly large and aggressive salarian that led the attack—manages to make it to a shuttle and slip away.

Still, the outcome is acceptable. They search the surrounding area for any survivors. They find a handful and diligently apply medi-gel to the wounded. Hope joins them not too long after, expression sour. She introduces herself reluctantly to Kurin by the name of Helen Smith.

Her accent is gone again but Grace doesn't ask. The moment Kurin turns to speak to the scientists Hope snaps at Grace. "We're not on the bloody _Normandy_. We can't afford to give out the limited medi-gel we have as if we had an infinite stock in the infirmary. What will we do if you need it?" Grace shrugs in response. Hope is ready to berate her further when Kurin returns. "Any idea why the Shadow Broker would be after you?"

"The Conduit." Kurin allows a beat. "Has to be. This team's been here since—well, since you were last here," she tells Grace. "We believe it's a back door to the Citadel. I'd ask you but I'm sure you'd tell me it's classified." Grace looks around as asari usher survivors onto the _Divination_. They've been patched up but some still bleed. They'll live but no doubt they'll be scarred by the events, remembering those they lost. Grace thinks of her CAT6 team. Fucking Collectors. "Anyway, it's possible to move it. We were in the final stages of preparing for that possibility. If the Reapers are real—"

"They are," Grace says firmly, surprised at her own conviction.

"Then it'd be best to take it to an undisclosed location."

"Isn't that something Commander Shepard should be privy to?" Hope asks. Kurin looks skittishly between the two women. "If anyone is going to stop the Reapers, it'll be her. Seems to me something like that would be good to know."

"Sorry, but that's not up to me. And as far as I know, the Alliance has denied any existence of the Reapers. As has the Council. On Thessia… I can only say that our homeworld has a vested interest in keeping their options open and safeguards in place." Kurin's explanation nets only a frown from Hope. "And even that is saying too much." She bites her lip. "I'm unsure if reinforcements are on the way. We're lucky our pilot survived. It's all thanks to the two of you. I wish I could thank you somehow—"

"Perhaps some credits—" Hope suggests.

"That won't be necessary," Grace cuts Hope off before she can finish. "I understand the need for urgency. Whatever you're planning, it'd best be done quickly. If the Shadow Broker is after you, no doubt it's important." Kurin nods gratefully. They shake hands. "Good luck, Lieutenant."

"Same to you, Commander. And thank you." Kurin holds her hand an instant longer than Grace anticipated before letting go. She smiles before turning, climbing the ramp onto the _Divination_.

"You told her you were Shepard?" Hope asks once Kurin's out of earshot. Her voice is even despite the incredulity she must be experiencing.

"She wouldn't put her gun down."

"At this rate I could shoot you myself. That's just brilliant. While you were at it why not tell her you're a—" she cuts herself off and glares in another direction.

"A what?"

Hope rubs her eyes. "Never mind. Let's get out of here." They return to the shuttle, Hope's mood becoming fouler by the moment.

Grace tries to mend the situation but isn't sure how to reason with her. "We did the right thing. You know we did the right thing." She takes the pilot seat, buckling the seatbelt as Hope yanks the shuttle door closed.

"They're _asari_. Asari who are clearly up to something with that Conduit. Something they refuse to tell even 'Commander Shepard.' They're only out for themselves. How are you so naïve? You're risking yourself just as stupidly as Shepard."

"Who cares what they are? A life is a life." She fixates on the command console in front of her, afraid she'll say something she regrets.

* * *

Shepard's eyebrow is gashed open and bleeding along with her split lip. It reminds Liara of the scars she had before being reconstructed. She remembers the divot in Shepard's lips when their lips brushed together. She ignores the memory now to look around the room. Power has been restored. Feron and Miranda ran in to aid them—all too late. Shepard's hardsuit is nearly obliterated. A massive dead yahg lies sprawled on its back, broken glass everywhere. Liara is the Shadow Broker now.

The power is… tantalizing. Far more than any biotic prowess could grant her. Feron is safe. Injured, bleeding and skittish but alive. Miranda has offered to return him to the _Normandy_ for a short period of time to have Chakwas look him over. Liara accepts the invitation on his behalf.

It leaves her and Shepard in a metal tomb, her new domain. The holographic glowing ball bounds around the room, inquisitive and eager to offer assistance. Liara pays it no attention. Whatever it is will be useful in the future. Now she's trying to process the enormous undertaking at hand. What is she doing? Is it right…? But if not her, who? The network is far too valuable to leave unattended, to leave for some other to discover and take over.

She stares at the volley of intelligence reports coming in. Some from Eden Prime, others from Ilos. There's so much of it, so much to discover. It is like a Prothean dig site but alive and evolving. Shepard looks around the space as if a little lost. "We're going to have fun dragging this bastard out. Unless you plan to skin and leave him as a rug. Too bad there isn't a fireplace."

Liara grimaces. "He's a yahg, not some animal." Though she does bring up a very interesting question. How does one remove something of that size? That and his personal army. It'll be a gruesome and time-draining process. "Here," she removes some medi-gel from her belt, applying it to Shepard's eyebrow and lips before she can protest. Shepard hisses softly as her skin stitches back together. "You took quite a beating." Shepard is a tall woman but next to the yahg she looked small.

"The bigger they are, the faster they beat you into unconsciousness," she smiles faintly. Liara sees the hope in her face and pulls away reluctantly. "Feron is safe. The Shadow Broker is dead. Looks like all your dreams came true."

"Yes. Thanks to you." There's a pause. "Sometimes I wonder if I'd be able to get anything done if it weren't for your help."

"Managed to get me to Cerberus and away from the Collectors. I'd say that's a sizable feat."

"Perhaps." Liara rubs her forehead softly. "It's going to take so long to go through all of this. It's a good thing I'm an asari. Everything that is stored here—it could take centuries just to go through it all."

"You're sure you want to do this?" Shepard asks. Liara looks at her. Shepard wipes her face, smearing blood along her chin and cheeks, her lips. "What does this mean?" Liara waits. "I thought…" she considers. "I thought after all of this was done you'd come with me. Now you're on another mission. A big one. Do you have to do this?" Liara frowns. "Leave it for someone else."

"I can't do that. I cannot risk it. Shepard—this has the galaxy's secrets. The Shadow Broker is omnipotent—like a goddess or god. The information stored in this station will be essential against the Reapers." She sighs softly. "Why do you look so uncertain? Do you think I'm not capable?"

"For fuck's sake. Who would ever think you're not capable?" Shepard moves to a console and touches it absently. Liara stares at her back. Her armor is splintered. Her shoulders are hunched, head bowed. "I thought... I just thought after this was over we could work on us again. You'd come aboard the _Normandy_. Or maybe not," she shakes her head. "We could run away. Get married. Have kids. Spend our time together."

"We won't have much time if we don't stop the Reapers," Liara sounds too sharp and she immediately regrets her tone. Shepard was never one to speak so concretely of commitment, Goddess, of having children! When Shepard died Liara thought of all their missed opportunities. She imagined herself as Shepard's bondmate, of having her children. It made her sob then. It makes her sad now. "I am sorry but… we can't just live for ourselves anymore. And you'd be bored."

"So, what, you're willing to throw everything away to take on a new responsibility?"

"I can't believe you. You're accusing _me_ of throwing everything away?" Liara asks, her temper flaring again. "How are you so irresponsible? So childish? We can focus on stopping the Reapers or we can focus on us. Were you worried about throwing things away when you were making the rounds on the _Normandy_?" she demands. Shepard turns around. She looks sad and small. "Well. Have you anything to say about it? You admitted it. Am I supposed to be grateful?"

Shepard parts her lips but can't look at her. She covers her face with her hands. Liara wonders if she's crying. She can't be. She lowers her hands. Her cheeks are dry but her eyes are wet, narrowed as if to keep the tears in. "You have no idea what it's like to die and come back and have everything be different. _I'm_ different." She steps towards her. "I feel crazy." She drags her hand through her hair. "I needed you. I _needed_ you, Liara. You weren't there. You wouldn't even consider it. I'm _not_ you. I'm not as _strong_ as you are. All right? Is that what you wanted to hear? I was lonely and miserable and I wanted to forget, for one fucking minute the Frankenstein I came back as. I did things I shouldn't have. I was wrong. I hated them. I hated myself. I hated you. I hated you for not… I thought you didn't love me. I thought you couldn't love me." Her words catch in her throat. "I need you. Everything that's happened with people who just happened to be handy… it just made me feel shittier and more alone. Every day I try to measure up to what you deserve and every day I fuck it up." She shakes her head. "You're the only worthwhile thing I have anymore." Her words stall sharply again. "I can't say anything to make it better. I'm not expecting you to forgive me. I love you. Please don't give up on me. Please let me make it up to you. I'm lost without you. I'm nothing without you."

Liara can only take it in. The words have rendered her speechless. Her throat is tight. Her heart pounds wildly. "That isn't true," she manages. It's such a clean, simple thing to say to her emotional outpouring. Perhaps Shepard did return differently. She was never so direct before. Never so desperate. It's as if she were hanging by a thread. Liara cautiously goes to her. She touches her face and brings her close. Shepard settles her forehead on Liara's shoulder. She shakes without making a sound. She smells of sweat and blood. She's solid. Real. Alive. Not some tangible ghost. Liara runs her fingers over her hair and realizes she's already forgiven her.

* * *

The problem is that she's everything about Shepard that was wrong: impulsive, reckless, sentimental. Hope fears that once more Earth and humanity will be put on the back burner to pursue diplomatic, politically correct goals. The problem is that people feel guilty in acknowledging they need an edge. Pride becomes a mortal sin.

Shepard—Grace, reclines against a stack of pillows on the bed. She came away from the fighting on Ilos unscathed. She has her headphones on, listening to the music player Hope brought her the day she ordered the hit on her. She looks peaceful and soft. She isn't, Hope reminds herself, but it can be confusing.

Grace has shadows under her eyes. They traveled a long time in relative silence. She dons sweatpants and a black hoodie—the previous one worn during the massacre in Therum was thrown away. Hope crawls onto the bed on all fours, wearing only a spaghetti strapped shirt and shorts. If Grace notices she doesn't acknowledge her. Her finger taps absently on her leg to some rhythm.

Hope pulls one of the earplugs free and puts the bud into her ear, resting on the mountain of pillows alongside Grace. Black Mass. She doesn't remember the composer. Hope only knows it from Grace. The piece is erratic and tense, conflicting and panicked. "I don't like this one," she tells Grace. Grace absently changes the track. This one she recognizes. Air by Beethoven, a violin version. Grace would correct her on the sonata movement, she's sure. The shift in music relaxes her. This is a more uplifting piece with an undercurrent of sadness and longing. She's sure she doesn't enjoy it as others might. Beauty is ultimately a façade for something nefarious. "You don't understand me," Hope says.

"You don't want me to."

She's right but Hope doesn't concede the point. To do so would distract from the conversation. Hope shifts slightly onto her side, resting a hand on Grace's stomach. She waits for Grace to try to take it as she often tried to before but she doesn't. Hope is unsure if Grace has finally learned the proper nature of what happens between them or if she's simply growing tired of her. "You're important. You could be the only thing standing between Earth and the Reapers."

"The Reapers are greater than just Earth." She sighs softly, rubbing her eyes. "I think," she adds more hesitantly. "You know, sometimes I wish you cared more about me than just as a means to an end." The music continues to play softly in her ear. Hope listens for a long time and wonders if it calms Grace. It makes her tense. "Shepard can stand against the Reapers."

"She can't. She won't. You know that. I thought you understood." She lifts her face slightly to look at her. "Have you forgotten your promise already?" Hope isn't sure what it means when Grace averts her eyes. "You're Shepard." Her hand slides beneath the hoodie, gliding along her skin. It's warm, soft. Maybe they complement each other. Warm and soft to Hope's cold and hard.

"Two people can't be the same person, no matter how badly you may want it." She scoots closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

Hope tenses and frowns. Minutes pass. Her body softens, somehow. "There won't be two of you."

"I want to tell you something," Grace says. Hope stiffens again. She awaits another wretched love confession. "I don't remember my past. I have… feelings. Reactions. I get so panicked sometimes that I can't breathe." Hope's frown deepens. She does? She has? It's unexpected. She was meant to be free of Shepard's clutter. "All I have is now and the future and you at my side. I respect you. But I won't let people die when I can help them. I won't wait for someone else to get around to it because they aren't human. I'm not like that. You're not like that. You can't be like that."

Hope leans into her, unsure if Grace is repeating a mantra or stating a command. "You're so common." This time Grace goes rigid. They remain twined together resentfully for minutes.

"You're a coward," Grace returns gently. Hope isn't sure she heard the words. She wonders if they're meant to feel like an icicle in her belly. Maybe she's sick. Maybe she hates having her professionalism questioned. "Do what you want but I'm not going to let fear or your stupid guidelines compromise who I am. I have to be able to look at myself in the mirror."

Hope closes her eyes. The ascending music in her ear makes her feel like she's free-falling. Then it's ripped away and she's left with only the stillness and quiet of the room. Grace sets the music player aside on the nightstand. Her chest falls and rises. Hope pushes herself to a sitting before straddling her. Grace brings her hands to Hope's hips. Hope cradles Grace's head in her hands. "You're going to disappoint me." It's difficult to get the words out cleanly and stripped of emotion. "Please don't ruin everything we've worked for. Please."

"When have I ever made you proud?" The words are another icy stab between her ribs. Hope's losing control. She's losing control of her. Panic burns within. Grace pulls Hope's hands away, kisses them. "Hey. Don't look that way."

What way? The soft pressure of her lips against her own is no answer. What way, she wonders again? Disappointed? Disgusted? One of them sighs. Hope doesn't know which. A happy sigh, a sad sigh, tired sigh, disappointed sigh, angry sigh. She doesn't know. As her lips part under Grace's gentle insistence she still doesn't know.


	14. Disguises

Commander Jane Shepard

D.O.B. 4.11.2154

Mother: Hannah Shepard

D.O.B. 8.31.2128

Father: James Shepard (deceased)

D.O.B. 3.13.2123

 **Deleted Email Drafts** :

 _Dear Liara_ —

 _Liara_

 _Hey_

 _Dr. T'soni_

 _Dr. Liara T'soni_

 _How are you? How are things? I miss you._

 _You haven't responded to any of my emails. Too busy tracking down the Shadow Broker to send a response? It would take two fucking minutes._

 _Fuck you. Fuck **you,** Liara_.

 _I wish you'd consider coming back to the Normandy. It isn't the same without you._

 _I love you. I need you. Jesus Christ, I wonder if I'm even the same anymore. I look into the mirror and see a freak. Help me feel normal again, please._

 _Did you ever love me?_

 _None of these other women can fuck like you do._ _Do you even give a shit?_

 _Who the fuck is this friend of yours you need to get back? Were you fucking around on me when I was dead?_

 _Kaidan. I'm sorry about how things went down on Horizon. But Cerberus isn't as bad as you think. Is it really so bad for humanity to have an edge?_

 _Liara. I've done something te—_

 **Extranet Searches** :

Cerberus

The Illusive Man

Miranda Lawson

Liara T'Soni

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?

Pragia scientists

Coping with guilt

Asari

Coming back from near-death experiences

Asari image search

 **Alliance Service History** :

2172 Enlistment (Arcturus Station)

2177 Engagement at Skyllian Blitz

2178 Assault on Torfan moon, 90% of squad lost, final collateral toll adjusted to 75% by Alliance

2178 Psych Evaluation Ordered – ignored

2178 Court Martial – charges dismissed

2179 (ICT) N Candidacy Offered and Accepted

2180 N7 status granted

2181 Promotion to Commander status

2182 XO assignation SSV Normandy

2183 SPECTRE status granted by Citadel Council

2183 Casualty of Collector attack on SSV-Normandy

Post Alliance History:

2183 Body recovered by Liara T'Soni, handed to Cerberus

2185 Resurrected by Miranda Lawson and Project Lazarus

2185 Recruited Ardat-Yakshi Morinth

 **Sexual Partners since SPECTRE status** :

Sha'ira

Liara T'Soni

Zaeed Massani

Kelly Chambers

Jennifer (alias: 'Jack' 'Subject Zero' 'Jacqueline Nought')

Samara (deceased: executed by Commander Shepard)

A cold chill travels down Shepard's back. She's left thinking of stars and an oppressing lightness. The Shadow Broker drone zips around her, offering her any assistance with data management. Liara is some feet away in front of an array of monitors, trying to sort through the flood of intel streaming in. "Delete the dossiers for Commander Shepard and Justicar Samara," she tells the drone quietly.

"Of course, Shadow Broker. Is there anything else I can do to assist you?"

Shepard searches for their names in the database but comes up empty. She shakes her head and makes her way to Liara, circling her arms around her waist and pressing to her back. Guilt trickles through her like an icicle. She rests her chin on Liara's shoulder. Liara's hand grazes hers. "You're cold," she says, turning her head slightly to look at her.

"Aren't you?" she can barely hear her own voice.

"Maybe a little." She looks around the space. "I suppose not having the fat density of a yahg isn't doing me any favors," her fingers grip Shepard's more securely. "Now is the part when you make me an offer I can't refuse."

Nervousness dots Shepard's laughter. Will Liara somehow uncover what she's done? There's so much data buried in the network, there's no way of knowing what else there's left to unearth. Cold sweat springs to her forehead and she feels herself shake. It's possibly nerves. She's close to having Liara back in her life again. It's been years since they've been together. They've both changed, maybe too much. What if Liara rejects her? What if things are awkward? What if she can see into her mind? What if she sees everything she did to Samara? "This is like a dig site for you. Can I really drag you away?"

"You don't want to?"

Shepard's smile is like a grimace. She's never hesitated with her. Now she's afraid. She isn't ashamed of the things she's done—she's afraid of their discovery, of Liara's judgment. "You know full well I'd be more than happy to warm you up right here." She pulls away. Liara holds on to her hand, peering at her curiously. Shepard licks the sweat from her upper lip. "But… there's wine on the _Normandy_."

"Oh?" Liara walks alongside her. "Is that your plan?" She smiles. The deception, Shepard decides, will only cause _her_ massive stress. It will keep Liara happy. It will keep them together. That's worth anything. Sometimes you have to do despicable things for love.

* * *

The Shadow Broker ship is vast and empty. The cold in the air clings to her uniform. Miranda brushes past Shepard and Liara. Shepard pays little attention. Liara turns her head to watch her as they exit. No doubt Liara has been sifting through an intimidating amount of data. She gave Shepard access and grudgingly extended the offer to Miranda as well.

The Illusive Man has given her a task in case this opportunity should arise. First, however, a personal inquiry. "Retrieve all data on Oriana Lawson," she instructs the drone.

The data that is returned is sparse, noting her creation in Henry Lawson's lab, and subsequent 'kidnapping' at Miranda's hands a few years later. Then she went dark for a number of years before resurfacing briefly on Ilium, when Niket and Enyala spirited her away to an unknown destination. Current whereabouts: unknown. Damn it. It's no more than Liara had been able to tell her.

The new dead end is disappointing, but she has orders. The Illusive Man's mandate. Find traces of Cerberus activity and delete it. Miranda understands the need for secrecy. Cerberus' mission is far greater than what the masses understand, greater than the zealous left and right wing propagandists spout. Liara has been known to be idealistic, and Shepard appears to be settling down—there's no need to give her further ammunition just when she's finally beginning to trust them.

The annoying drone zips around her, bobbing and weaving as if dancing. Its insistence that she's the Shadow Broker is a benefit to be exploited—sooner rather than later when Liara no doubt patches the loophole. "Pull up all Cerberus activity and records." The drone merrily does so.

Miranda is overwhelmed by the amount of data that pops onto the haptic displays. The Illusive Man wanted it all gone… but surely there would be a benefit to keeping it safely stored with a trusted source. She takes a breath, unsure if the cold she feels is from the ship or from choosing to misinterpret what the Illusive Man ordered. She reads off her omni-tool ID number and instructs the drone to load all Cerberus data onto the device. She looks through the displays while the process is underway.

"Will that be all, Shadow Broker?" the drone asks.

"No." She considers. "Pull up all records on Commander Shepard."

"There is no data available," the drone quickly returns.

Hm. "Are you _sure_?" It seems unusual to say the least that the Shadow Broker would have no data on Commander Shepard. He was the bastard looking to get her body to begin with. It doesn't seem right. It seems bloody impossible. "Run another search."

"Finished, Shadow Broker. No data available." It seems to do a pirouette at the revelation. Miranda rubs her forehead gingerly before looking through the haptic displays at the Cerberus data. There are more Cerberus cells than she imagined. They're all classified; even Miranda doesn't know the majority of them. Some three months ago one in New Canton was extinguished. The Collectors hit it, but the information on the haptic display shows no survivors. The scientists were studying Reaper activity.

Curious. It seems odd to lose an entire cell without her knowing. She's grateful to have the data loaded onto her omni-tool to examine further at a later time. She's beginning to turn away to look at another display when she spots the words 'Shepard sighting'. Miranda frowns and looks at the date. The day the Collectors attacked New Canton. That can't be right.

"Commander Shepard has never been on New Canton," she tells the drone. The Shadow Broker is a fraud as it turns out. She wonders how much of the data is actually garbage. Is it deliberate disinformation, or faulty intelligence gathering? "Your source was wrong."

The drone stops its dancing and glides over to her side as if to look at the data with her. "Searching," it says. "Video feed from New Canton Cerberus facility RP05981173 found. Loading." Miranda doesn't have a chance to snap at it for wasting her time, before a grainy video is on the screen in black and white. The lighting is poor. There are four mercenaries. She doesn't recognize them. She's focused on the bodies of Cerberus operatives slumped dead on the floor. One of the mercenaries turns, puzzled, in the direction of the camera. Miranda stops. She grips the console fiercely until her knuckles are white.

No. That's impossible. "Pause the feed," she says breathlessly. The video is stopped. That face. There's no denying that face. It's identical. It's younger, somehow, clearer. It isn't Shepard. Shepard's face was a maze of scars then. Shepard was on the _Normandy_ then. "Find and load all New Canton video feeds from the day of the Collector attack," she tells the drone. It fetches them. The Collector ship descends. The Shepard… thing exits the building, fights the Collectors until the feed fizzles and dies. She brings a trembling hand to her mouth. How could this have happened? How is this possible—"Find all 'Shepard sightings' as of a year ago."

A lengthy list is displayed prominently on the haptic display: Torfan, Therum, the Citadel, Noveria, Virmire, Ilos, New Canton, Alchera, Illium, more. Miranda is cold. She straightens and tries to think straight. A new location pops onto the screen as she's looking: Horizon.

"Where is the Cerberus cloning facility located?" she asks. The coordinates pop onto the screen. Her throat is locked tight. "Are all clones accounted for?"

"Negative. X3 and X8 are aware."

"Where are they?"

"No data available."

Miranda swears. She double-checks her omni-tool to make sure the data transferred properly. "Make 'Shepard sightings' unavailable to anyone whose omni-tool ID key doesn't match my own. Forward all incoming Shepard sightings information to me, as well as all Oriana Lawson sightings. Discretely," she tells it. The drone forwards her a security key. They're loose. There's Cerberus property loose… who knows the damage they could cause the mission, could cause Cerberus. They're parts. Only spare parts for Shepard. If someone were to discover them—discover Cerberus' role—Cerberus might never recover. Her chest is too tight. "Delete all Cerberus data," she says, exiting swiftly.

"Yes, Shadow Broker."

* * *

The Collector attack on Horizon is evidenced by toppled, mangled buildings riddled with bullet holes. No doubt Shepard contributed to the destruction. The colony is fairly small. The grass is sheared and scorched in areas. It smells like rain. Grey, threatening clouds permeate the skies. Shepard—Grace moves around cautiously. They've been walking for some time but have heard nothing aside from the rustling wind.

"Did they take everyone?" Grace asks.

"No. Some were spared. Not many." Hope has investigated the numbers. Only hundreds of the 650,000 some were left behind. Shepard managed to save some but not enough. Hope wonders if Shepard would have done a better job if it'd been an asari colony. "Shepard's former crewmate Kaidan Alenko was here. It didn't go well."

"I know." She spares her a glance. "I ran into him in Alchera." Hope grits her jaw. Shepard—Grace, is beginning to make a habit of withholding information from her. The more she withholds the bigger the risk of the mission failing. It was easier in the beginning. Hope thought she was malleable. Has she been too soft? "He thought I was Shepard. Don't worry about it."

"I decide what we do and don't worry about." She doesn't look to see if she's hurt her with her sharp words. The fault may lie with her for being too considerate of her feelings. Still, Grace has done well. She's stayed alive and killed without remorse. Yet her rebellions increase by the day. She's beginning to disregard Hope's advice. Hope clenches her fingers, as if to tighten her hold on the little control she has left. How does she appeal to Grace? Idealism has made her dangerous. "You need to start telling me—"

Her words are muffled as Grace reaches from behind and clamps a hand over her mouth. Hope struggles as Grace pulls her firmly into the shadows. "Stop," she whispers, nodding toward the sky. Two Cerberus shuttles circle above before taking a gentle swing down to a landing. Damn it. How did they track her? Grace's hand slides to Hope's neck, keeping her pinned. Her fingers tingle along her skin. Hope skims the perimeter. "They're after you," Grace says lethally.

That's only partly true. Hope molds her face into barely contained panic. The display is as explosive as fireworks. Concern lights Grace's face like a beacon. Despite the danger, Hope battles a genuine smile and wins. The sneer that tempted her before is forgotten. She feels a sliver of order restored to her. "I can handle this." Grace's eyes flicker darkly. Storm clouds are rolling in.

Hope senses an opportunity and she takes it, throwing herself wildly into the open, no cover in sight. The Cerberus troopers spot her. Hope fires blindly with the Phalanx pistol. The crack of a sniper rifle tears through the air. Her skin goes cold and clammy as they close in on her position. There's a collection of crates to the right. Hope makes a run for them, a hail of bullets pinging into her shields.

Grace swears. Their eyes lock. _Stay put_ , Grace motions. Hope yanks the sniper rifle from her back and lines up the shot. A trooper's head bursts like a melon as the soldiers scramble for cover.

"Go around, go around!" one of them shouts.

They're trying to flank her. Hope smiles through the inkling of terror. Her shields are taking far too long to recharge. The sniper rifle on that soldier must be incredible. It's only then she realizes her leg is bleeding. Adrenaline must have pushed her through it. She digs her finger into the bullet hole and holds back a painful shout. When she glances back to where Grace was she's gone. Hope's stomach clenches so painfully that she's left dazed.

They won't take her. Grace won't let them. She searches the area but there's no sight of her. The footsteps of the soldiers move close. They're swarming around her like bees. It starts to rain but something is wrong. The water is like acid. She cloaks. The rain is eating through her shields. She makes a run for it. The muddied ground will either mask her footsteps or give her away. Maybe her bleeding leg will give her away. _She won't let them take me._

She wonders if Grace has seen through her.

* * *

The fish have slowed in the tank, excitement waning now that they're accustomed to their new home. Shepard notices them only because Liara says something. Shepard looks around the cabin and sees a bleakness that had gone unnoticed. Liara is like a light that illuminates faults, maybe the result of her own goodness.

Liara has seen the space before but they were heated then and blinded by their anger. Now she wanders the room like a visitor in a mausoleum. There is no dust. Liara looks at the glass case above Shepard's laptop. It's possible to see clean through the room and to the bed. Liara turns, sighting her picture. Her eyes are sad. "That doesn't look like me anymore."

Shepard is too aware of her distance and heat that emanates from her. "That's still you." Liara's protest is held in a look. "I still see it."

Liara smiles ruefully. "No models?" She touches the glass as if doubting her eyes. "I remember you had so many of those datapad magazines. You got serials. You even built a few." She looks at Shepard. Shepard shifts uncomfortably. "After Saren you'd stay up at night putting them together. There was one of a Mako."

"You suggested I prop it up on its side," Shepard says with a small grin.

Liara returns the smile. "You're a terrible driver."

"It was hard to sleep." It still is. "And even asari only have so much energy." Liara's cheeks color. _There you are_ Shepard nearly says _there's that spark._ She keeps the words to herself. "I don't care about that stuff anymore."

"Hm. I suppose I'm not one to lecture on enjoying the small pleasures." Her barely there ironic smile turns pained. Shepard knows what she's thinking of and hates herself for it. "What do you care about?"

"Stopping the Collectors. Stopping the Reapers. You. You above all." Liara looks off to the side. She stares at the charred dog tags. Shepard doesn't want them—it surprised Liara. She set them aside. Shepard tries not to look at them. She doesn't want to touch them. "You were the last thing I thought of when I died. The first I thought of when I woke." Liara narrows her eyes, her lips thinning, a hand cautiously to her throat. "I love you," she says hoarsely. "I am so sorry for all the ways I've hurt you. I'm so sorry for all the ways I'll hurt you again. I wish I could be better. I wish I could be worthy—"

Liara is the one to kiss her, urgent and needing. Shepard nearly stumbles down the cabin steps. An unexpected flush crawls up her cheeks. Liara feels the same, tastes the same. Her body is harder than before. They pull at each other's clothing in desperation. There's still much to discuss. How often will they see each other? Will Liara join her once she's had all the necessary data? Everything is up in the air.

They move forward feverish and afraid. What will Liara see? How deeply will she pry? Terror should shackle her but desire urges her ahead. Stripped naked, Shepard's pushed back onto the bed, a wicked smile playing on Liara's lips before she stops, hesitant. Shepard rests her weight on her elbows as Liara crawls onto the bed.

Shepard runs a hand along her stomach. Her pebbled skin is silken, she trails her hand to her face. "Talk to me." Liara bows her head. Her eyes shimmer. "I'm scared, too," she says carefully. "I'm so afraid I'll lose you." The tail end of her words get lodged in her throat. She wraps an arm gently around Liara's waist, drawing her close and then pressing her onto her back.

"I can't lose you again. Jane—" The words halt. Shepard presses their lips together, their kiss melancholy and yearning. Shepard remembers the cold of the sky, the shattering sadness that crippled her lungs, followed by burning, her hardsuit smoldering, dog tags charring before she was embraced by what she thought would be the never ending eternity of death.

The darkness cradled her, filled her until she was only a shell. Liara found her. Liara brought her back from the brink. Their kisses grow searing and hot and when their mouths part, their eyes meet again. Liara's go black and Shepard is not afraid. She goes willingly towards that knowing and familiar embrace of the darkness, happy to let it wrap around her like a cocoon.

* * *

The patter of the heavy rain soaks every noise, absorbing the sucking, sticky steps in the mud and the small, muffled sounds of soldiers having their throats ripped open. Grace was taught to kill at the CAT6 academy. Helmets have to be slipped on. A sliver is all that's needed to wedge a blade in and jerk it quickly.

Killing a helmeted man is much like killing a krogan. It's all about finding that spot. Everyone has an Achilles' heel. Blood runs a pink watermelon color before it's reduced to mud like everything else. Hope was reckless. Hope is not reckless. Grace doesn't know what her plan is but she does not doubt that Hope has one. Hope is always prepared. Life and its players are reduced to a chessboard for her.

Grace presses to the wall. Her shields are still hissing from when the acid rain hit her. Her skin burns as if doused in scalding water. She's next to a glass-walled home. It's remarkable that people build homes that way; they're like open targets. What sheltered lives have they led that they would willingly expose themselves?

She sees the reflections of a man and woman. Grace doesn't know who her parents are but if she did she imagines they would be only a few years older than these people. She blinks her eyes rapidly. The soldier that moves around the corner cries out in alarm. She strikes quickly, delivering a swift, brutal kick to his shin, shattering it before grabbing him by the back of his helmet. The biotic power pulses through her, moving through her fingertips. It always makes her fingers tingle, charges the air with something akin to electricity. She releases the energy and his helmet and head are pulverized.

Sticky red chunks cover her fingers and suit. The nice older couple look appalled. They run. Grace can see through the glass to the other side. More soldiers heading in. Why did Hope expose herself? What is she trying to do? Grace pulls the glass door open and steps into the home, trekking mud and rain inside. They don't turn, fixated on the Cerberus soldiers stalking the perimeter.

Jane Shepard is a vanguard, always hurling herself into conflict. Hope specializes in infiltration. Grace is more adept at using biotics to tear her enemies apart from a distance, but it makes for a lot of explosions. She'd rather not draw any civilians into the fight. CAT6 and Hope have taught her to move stealthily. A moment is all it takes. Her hands lash out. Grace covers their mouths and jerks them down to the floor. "Stay down," she tells them quietly. "They might not come after you if you stay out of the way."

"Are you Commander Shepard?" the man asks. "You saved us—you saved us a few months back—"

The soldiers pause outside the glass walls, staring in. Grace wonders if Kai Leng is near. For months she's thought of gutting him. Hope doesn't know how she tosses and turns in the night. She doesn't know how she clutches her side. Sometimes she says things that don't make any sense. When Grace thinks of killing him it's never quick or easy. She takes her time. She makes him suffer.

What if Kai Leng is near? What if he's caught up to Hope and finished the job? _Why did she throw herself out into the open?_ Grace skims the apartment. There's a photograph of the couple with a young woman in an Alliance uniform. Her skin is the color of caramel. Her dark hair glistens. She brandishes a bright smile with a compelling sliver of cockiness.

"Who are these people?" the woman asks shakily.

Blood pounds in her ears. A sharp cry and Grace throws caution to the wind. She leaps up and charges the group, smashing through glass and tossing back two soldiers. A flash of the sniper rifle and she whips back, yanking a bookshelf out to block the bullet at the last possible second. The Traynors—that's the name Grace thinks she saw—are safe for the moment.

Grace wasn't expecting a fight. She should know better by now. She searches the hazy grey skies, the acid rain stinging and blinding. A laser hones in on her and then another. Red dots dance along the muddy ground. She shrouds herself in a barrier, scrambling for cover where there is none to be found. There's a whisper of a sound and one of the red dots skids rapidly to the side before disappearing. The other one swipes away quickly, searching for another target.

She runs. Sweat and rain slide down her face and neck. Her steps slip in the muck. In desperation she hurtles through a wall of glass. The colony is a den of ghosts. This apartment has been ransacked, furniture toppled carelessly. Her hands and face begin a slow sting before throbbing.

She takes a slow breath, Paladin out. A soldier steps into the apartment. His frame is tall, powerful. He wears armor like polished obsidian. Grace stills, trapping the air in her lungs. Where's Hope? The soldier stops. Grace is frozen, trying not to draw the attention of the other soldiers. Drops of blood spill from her hands, enough to get his attention. The polished gold helmet turns in her direction. His arm guards pulse blue and then stop.

The Cerberus crest centered on his chest catches the light. She listens to his breathing, steps closer as he lowers to the ground. He sets aside his pistol. He unshackles the arm guards that seem to have whips coiled inside of them. He pushes them in her direction. It's unexpected. He's taking a risk that she won't just kill him anyway. Grace kicks them away. "Turn around. Hands behind your head."

He gets to his feet and turns around. "I just want to talk to you. I'm going to take my helmet off. Keep your pistol trained on me." Grace's nose flares. Most of the men she kills wear helmets. She doesn't see any advantage to him removing it but he's done it before she can protest. He faces her. Grace falters. His eyes are light blue. They aren't jaded. Blond, square-jawed and handsome, he bears a stunning resemblance to Santos. Santos who died on New Canton. She tells herself that. How is this possible? Is it possible? "You're good."

"Where is she?" Her voice borders on breathless. She squints as blood trails into her eye.

"That woman you're with? You tell me." He smiles but grimaces when she presses the barrel of the gun to his head. "I'm not here for her. I'm here for you, Grace. You've been running for a long time." His voice is the same. "It's remarkable how much people can look alike, isn't it? You wonder what part of them is really them. Can really be them."

Grace takes a step closer, the barrel of the gun shifting to the middle of his forehead. Santos is dead. Whatever this thing is isn't him, can never be him.

"This must all be so confusing," he tells her. His eyes are soft and kind. Grace pretends not to feel the tightness spreading over her chest. "You look at this symbol and you think you know all there is to know about me. I understand. When something is real and concrete, when you've only ever had questions, knowledge is powerful. Cerberus has a bad reputation. We're not perfect. Some of our agents are questionable—but not all of us. You don't trust me. We only came here to talk to you. That woman… what's she calling herself these days…? Hope? She shot first."

Grace pistol-whips him. He stumbles back, a gash opening in his forehead. A profound sadness and regret fills her. He kneels on the floor. "I have cuffs. Go ahead and put them on me. They're on my belt." She looks cautiously and finds them. When she leans in to grab them she smells some hint of cologne, similar to what Santos wore. She's only ever smelled blood and sweat on Cerberus agents, shit when she let them sit around too long. He looks at her and she has to look away, using one hand to slap the cuffs on behind his back. "I'll stay here," he says with a smile.

She backs away from him. "Is Kai Leng here with you?"

He shakes his head. "Never met the guy. He's a little…ah, overzealous, isn't he? Heard he did Hope in on Bekenstein? He's always been a smug piece of shit. Not surprised Hope outsmarted him. She's _good_. The Illusive Man has been after her for a while. Can't blame him. I'd hate to lose one of my best agents too." He watches her keenly and though she reveals nothing except for a tightening of her jaw, he sees it. "She didn't tell you?" He shakes his head. "That's just like her, isn't it? Don't know what she's told you but Hope Lilium is Cerberus."

Hope Lilium…? In minutes he's told her more about Hope than Hope has in a year. The restricting feeling in her chest expands, making it all but impossible to breathe. Hope's Cerberus?

"That's an alias. When she joined she was Rasa. I think before that it might have been Sasha?" He shrugs. Grace stoops in front of him, peers into his face. He has light blond stubble on his face. "I misspoke, actually," he says softly. "She isn't Cerberus anymore. That's probably why she didn't mention it to you. She was with us for a while. One day she took all she could from us and left. I don't know if you've figured out yet that that's her way." Her eyes flash blue and he winces, preparing for a hit.

Grace steps back, running a hand through her hair, trying to gather her breath.

"Cerberus is here to give humanity an edge," he says. It's only when he says it that Grace realizes how close it is to the rhetoric Hope has spoken for months. "It isn't a bad thing to take pride in your race. To want to excel. To be the best we can be. That's all Cerberus wants." He looks up at her, blood trailing down the side of his face. Grace wonders if she hasn't asked what his name is because she wants to keep on pretending it could possibly be Santos. "Everyone should have the opportunity to live up to their potential."

"What do you want with me?"

He shifts his shoulders, rolling his neck lightly. "There's a war coming. The Reapers. We pretend like they don't exist—act like anyone who even mentions them is a lunatic. The Alliance does that too. So does the Citadel Council. We admit, it would create mass panic, but they're real. Cerberus has created a project. The Phantom Project," he tells her simply. "We need agile, powerful biotics. You fit the bill. I know you don't trust me. I don't blame you. I have a shuttle. You killed my squad," he laughs before hanging his head, "I knew those guys for a while. But if you'll even consider our offer it'll be worth it. I know you can pilot a shuttle. Take us back. I'll stay in cuffs. I'm not going to try to fight you. I couldn't take you even if I wanted to. Credits don't mean a damned thing to someone like you, but doing the right thing—and answers, Grace. Answers must mean a lot." Grace appraises him cautiously. She slips the pistol back into its holster. "I've got some medi-gel in my bag. Hate for your face to get scarred up." She finds a small pack attached to a belt on his leg. She yanks it open. There's only one dose. And a pair of sunglasses.

She unfolds them and slips them onto his face. Panic spirals inside of her. He grins. "Bit dark for shades, isn't it?" he asks.

She rips open the medi-gel pack with her teeth and applies it to his forehead where the hilt of the pistol cut his head open. His lips thin as his skin begins to stitch back together. She half-heartedly applies it to her own face and hands, feeling some need to continue as she has for the past year, finding a comfort in habit.

There's a haze when she looks up. As if she were looking to the outside through a waterfall. Hope materializes. Her face is venomous. Grace's face burns but she isn't sure if it's with shame, embarrassment or anger. The Phalanx is positioned perfectly at the base of his skull.

Grace is on her feet, Paladin in hand instantly. It's pointed at Hope before she knows she's done it. Hope doesn't step away, doesn't back down. Her leg is bleeding. The venom in her face fades to something else—something broken before becoming determined and sure again. As if this was to be the only expected outcome. "Put the gun down," Grace says.

"Or what? You'll kill me?" Water drips down her face, blood runs down her leg. Her hand is steady while Grace's shakes. "Is this what you do the moment I leave you alone? Make nice with Cerberus agents?"

"It's over, Rasa," he says. Hope's eyes turn dangerously to him. "You've always wanted to control everything around you. Let her make her own decisions. We both know this mess you're in is your own doing."

"Shut up," Grace tells him, but her voice comes out small and afraid. "You're Cerberus?" she asks Hope. "Your name is Hope Lilium? Or Rasa? Or Sasha?" Hope narrows her eyes. "Who the hell are you? Have you been lying to me this entire time?"

"I have been with you through the entirety of your existence—"

"No you haven't," Grace says sharply. "I only exist when I'm with you? Is that it?" Something dark and melancholy touches Hope's features before it extinguishes again becoming hard and unflinching. "Who are you? How can I believe anything you say?"

"You're taking his word over mine? You idiot." She cocks the hammer to the gun, turning her undivided attention and hatred to the Cerberus agent. "What have you been filling her head with?"

"Only the truth. Answers. All the things you've been hiding and keeping to yourself." He buckles forward when she slams him in the back of the head with the gun, his forehead smacking into the floor. Grace steps forward, gripping the pistol more tightly.

"Back off," she tells Hope. She reaches blindly for him, yanking him to a sitting, keeping the gun on Hope. "Don't do this. If you trust me you'll let me talk to him. You'll let me make my own decision." Hope's jaw clenches, her eyes shimmering for an instant. Tears of anger? Tears of betrayal? Maybe she's frustrated or sad. Maybe it's only the rain. "It's the least you owe me."

"I'm sorry Grace, but I can't let you do that," Hope says.

The Cerberus soldier looks up at her. The sunglasses have fallen off his face. "All her life this woman has only ever known how to lie and betray," he says, "I want to help you. We can find out where you came from. We can give you back your past. All you have to do is come with us. Don't let her do this, Shepard Jr."

Hope pulls the trigger. His skull erupts. Grace screams without meaning to. She slams Hope into a wall. She doesn't know how it happens, she doesn't know how she's pinned her there, only knows that she has, that she's trapped her and Hope doesn't look at her, can't maybe, because Grace is shouting. "He was unarmed…! He was bound...! You liar...! You monster...!"

She could kill her. She should kill her. She's a liar. She's a coward. She's a betrayer. She should kill her. She should kill her. Hope has taken the opportunity of finding out who she is away from her. She wouldn't even let her try. She can't breathe. She can't breathe. Hope snatches her face in her hands. "Listen to me," Grace can't listen, "Listen to me. Whoever you think that was, it wasn't. You don't know Cerberus. I do. They will lie and do whatever it takes for you to believe them, believe me. If nothing else—" Hope's voice is panicked and flush with emotion.

Grace slams her back into the wall. She walks back into the rain, heaving for breath.

* * *

Shepard has ordered shore leave for all _Normandy SR-2_ crewmembers. The ship is strangely empty and alienating without any of the staff. Miranda likes the quiet, though she finds herself reliving her conversation with the Illusive Man. She brought him information on the Shepard sightings. She didn't know why she expected answers. He was grateful for the tip and went so far as to say that he had just the team in mind to look into it before telling her to resume her duties as executive officer.

He's shutting her out. He knew the clone was live and hadn't bothered to tell her. He's keeping her in the dark. Why? Unsure she'll be able to bottle her frustration much longer if she remains onboard the _Normandy_ , she steps out onto the Citadel. She receives messages from Jacob and Shepard informing her that they're at the Dark Star Lounge, and she's expected to join them.

Miranda never thought Jacob would adopt Shepard's stance on anything. More likely he's concerned she isn't practicing good self-care. Who has time for that when she has to oversee the Collector mission? She makes her way through Citadel security, earning approving glances from some—likely the ones that don't know she's with Cerberus—and disgruntled (but still approving) looks from others—likely the ones that do.

Liara has returned to the Shadow Broker ship. It's unlikely that Shepard didn't invite her. Regardless, the commander appears to be in good spirits. Liara said little when she left, her face somewhat pensive, if not blank. Miranda won't be too surprised if she receives some message from her in the future. Miranda instructed the drone to forward her the 'Shepard sighting' feeds but who knows what else is buried in the network? She only had so much time. Miranda doesn't doubt that Liara will quickly realize Cerberus data is conspicuously absent from the network. She'll want answers, but Miranda isn't ready or willing to divulge any just yet.

The grating music from the Dark Star Lounge can be heard outside the club. She sighs inwardly before entering, searching through darkness and flashing lights for her crewmembers. Tali and Garrus are next to the dance floor, appearing to shout conversation over the noise.

Zaeed, Thane and Grunt are crowded comically around a small table, playing a game of Skyllian Blitz with Daniels and Donnelly. Samara chats with an attractive young man in a corner, her haunting eyes carrying a hint of amusement in them. Mordin and Jacob are at the gambling tables on the second floor, Mordin's mouth moving rapidly. Jacob looks miserable and bored.

Predictably, Jack and Shepard are sitting at the bar with a collection of drinks in front of them. She's made an appearance. Maybe saying hello will suffice and she can return to the _Normandy_ to continue her search into the Shepard sightings.

Her ears pick up on a nearby conversation. "…bloody terrified to go back. First whatever those nasty bug things were and now this."

Miranda turns her head in the direction of a young Indian woman in an Alliance uniform. She waves her drink animatedly as she speaks, spilling half of it in the process. She doesn't appear drunk. Her companion, a plainer blonde woman looks chagrined about the situation. "Samantha," she speaks delicately, "the point tonight was to get away from all of that stuff. Get drunk, dance, get laid, maybe?"

"I'm sorry I'm being a stick in the mud about all of this," Samantha returns shortly. "You act as if I'm not making an effort. Most people would be curled up in the fetal position after hearing that their parents were nearly shot by some soldiers chasing the great Commander Shepard around. That was my initial plan, for the record. Instead I'm content to talk about it in a club," she laughs dryly. "I'm so self-centered. Aren't colonies supposed to be safe? All of this happening, in Horizon! They should have never left London."

Miranda steps up to the women. The blonde looks at her with obvious irritation. Samantha looks at her and then away, quickly downing the small remainder of the drink. "You'll excuse us," Miranda says to the friend. "Now." The woman leaves with a shake of her head. She makes her way to the dance floor, perhaps happy for a reason to leave her sour friend behind. Miranda's secretly grateful she never bothered making friends. They seem a nuisance. Niket is the exception.

"So," Samantha reaches to a nearby table, taking a handful of small cubed napkins and wiping her hands. She hits her with a bright smile. "Come here often?"

Miranda frowns gently. Is she hitting on her? "That's classified." Samantha arches her eyebrows. "I need you to tell me about what you were just talking about. The Horizon incident. What's your last name?"

"Traynor," Samantha tells her in a bit of a daze.

Miranda nods and types it into the omni-tool. The name pops up, along with a picture and biographical data. Her aptitude scores indicate she's highly intelligent. "Ah, yes. You were on Horizon during the Collector attack."

"Pulled that right up, did you? Impressive and not worrisome in the slightest."

"These sorts of things need to be verified. You wouldn't believe the inane things people with little self-worth brag about." A beat. "I'm not actually interested about your experience on Horizon, so let's move along. Tell me more about the correspondence with your parents. You mentioned Commander Shepard and some soldiers were there today?" If the woman's parents were endangered, then no doubt Miranda shares some of the blame. She brushes the thought aside. She has a job to do.

The smile on the woman's lips that had been waning now disappears entirely. Her eyebrows are furrowed, lips set thin. "Actually…," she says thoughtfully, "it occurs to me that I don't want to tell you anything. You usually have to buy a girl dinner before you ask her to bare her past and current traumatic experiences. This is fast—even for lesbians." Miranda purses her lips quizzically, unsure of where the conversation is going. "Which I don't think you are— _damn_ , by the way—so I'll be going."

"Ah—wait," she says. She attempts to reach out to her but Samantha Traynor, most definitely not drunk, slips her grasp and moves on her way. Bloody hell. Her opportunity to find out what happened on Horizon squandered. That could have gone better. Miranda watches the woman move into the crowd, an array of colorful lights washing over her.

Two noes in one day. That's never happened before. She must be losing her touch.


	15. Family

X3 showers with the rest of Cerberus. They are a unit. They are a family. The water cascades over them like ice, each drop puncturing like a needle. The soldiers shake and yelp, laugh and make noise, stare at one another, sometimes openly, other times discreetly. X3 stares at the stainless steel walls and the way drops of water magnify the grooves of the metal.

They look at her, curious. She trounces them all in hand-to-hand combat. She's injured some critically. Not out of malice. They should be better. Thus far she is the only Phantom candidate. She is the prototype, though she is not the one they would have preferred. They're still waiting for _her._ If Kai Leng looks at her differently than any other soldier, it's only to shame her with contempt. Other times he behaves as if she isn't there. X3 asks questions and gets no responses. Her cheeks don't burn in the beginning.

There are others like her but she is the only one like herself. Ironic. She suits up in a white, gold and black uniform. She ties her hair up and eats meals alone. She understands she never went to school but has read about it. Remembers fragments of it. In another location her taunters may be bullies. In a different uniform they'd be expendable.

They stare at her face and she wonders what they see. She prefers them in helmets, their faces uniform, almost like her. What will happen to her, she wonders, when X8 is apprehended? She has thought about meeting her and has forced herself to reimagine it in a manner that Cerberus would find acceptable.

The organization grows by the day, as do their projects. She is the only phantom, but there are dragoons now. There was a blond one with a chiseled frame and stubble. He was selected for a special mission, but never returned. There are rumors that it was X8 that got him. She is rumored to be willful. X3 doesn't want to fight alongside a woman who is responsible for killing Cerberus agents.

Leng would tell her she is weak and small-minded. She distances herself from any emotional response.

A meal tray drops in front of her. X3 doesn't look up until she feels the other's gaze burning into her. X3 lifts her eyes: one green, the other brown. They've begun a new program: The Nemesis Project. Only a handful of slighter women have been inducted, catty and irrelevant.

This one is Annalise. She has brown eyes and blonde hair. Symmetrical features. Attractive, X3 supposes, though she places little value in aesthetics. The other tables watch them. No one ever sits with X3. This is the first time Annalise has. The Nemesis implants by all accounts are incredibly painful, making simple actions such as picking up an eating utensil an agonizing affair. The pain will fade. She is new. Her arms are covered where the implants would be. Her black bodysuit is halfway open, and a white undershirt clings to her. "I've been told to pick a partner. You don't have one. Neither do I." She glances at the tables around them. "We'll make a good team." She winces as she stabs into the steak in front of her.

X3 thinks of the blade she wields with greater proficiency each day. She will be expected to take lives for the good of humanity. "Okay," she says. She has questions but she isn't used to answers. Cerberus is family. You don't question family.

* * *

Shepard rips her old N7 armor from the deactivated geth. Where did the thing find it? Why take it? She's used to killing geth, not carrying them around. It's incredibly heavy and when it falls back onto the slab in the AI core it creates a loud clank that resonates throughout the room like a hum.

Shepard holds onto the armor. It's nothing she'll ever use. Hell, she doesn't want to look at it but she doesn't want that _thing_ wearing it. It belongs to her. No one will use any part or piece of her as spare parts. She leaves the room and digs into Chakwas' medicine cabinet, pulling out a handful of pills. Her head has been throbbing since the derelict Reaper ship.

Now they have a flashy IFF and can attempt to get through the Omega-4 Relay. She reminds herself to get it out of her room and turn it over to EDI and the rest of the team for investigation. She throws four pills into her mouth and makes her way over to the communications room.

Jacob took off after his little speech earlier. Miranda still lingers. Her eyes go to the N7 chest piece in Shepard's hand. Shepard throws it at her. "Get rid of this, will you?" Miranda catches it at the last instant. "I may not want it but I sure as hell don't want that thing wearing it."

"Have you made a decision?"

"There is no way in hell I'm going to activate a sentient geth on my ship. We need every edge possible in this war. Tear it apart if you have to. Get us something out of it. Something to help stop the Reapers."

Miranda looks down at the armor and back at Shepard. "Of course. The Illusive Man will be pleased." There's a pause. "As am I. This is for the best, Shepard."

Shepard nods and exits the room. A significant bounty has been placed on recovering an intact geth but that's hardly her concern, though she can admit that the credits will be nice to buy some weapon mods. Cerberus has done unethical things. So has she. She realizes now that they're willing to do anything to get the job done, to win. That's the kind of focus and attitude she needs at her side. If she has to play nice with Cerberus to beat the Reapers, so be it.

* * *

The _Rayya_ is a clunker of a ship. Now Shepard knows what Tali meant about her noisy ships. With every step it groans beneath them, the propulsion sounds of what keeps it going is never absent for very long. It's as clean as a lab. She never thought she'd get to visit the migrant fleet—but she never thought she'd have a crewmember accused of treason.

Tali introduces them to Admiral Shala'Raan who tells them the situation. Garrus stands up straighter and tries to get in an introduction, but is ignored. The accusations are ridiculous. Shepard has never met anyone so stubbornly loyal to their people. As they move forward to the beginning stages of the trial the situation only grows more desperate. Every word uttered by the Admiralty Board is insult added to injury. Garrus fidgets behind them. Tali is so tense a simple touch would be enough to shatter her.

They tell Tali her father is dead in a matter of fact way, as if the entire matter were inconsequential. Shepard sees the exact moment Tali stops breathing. She touches Tali's arm. Garrus brings a hand gently to the quarian's shoulder.

Their time is limited. The _Alarei_ is lost or will be shortly. Shepard hadn't planned on fighting hordes of geth. Tali and Garrus separate to talk amongst themselves. Shepard makes her way to the various admirals, each with their own agenda. Admiral Daro'Xen vas Moreh has an air of arrogance to her that Shepard has never encountered. Most quarians are meek or actively hostile given their reputation among the galaxy. Admiral Xen does not shy away from her. Even with the helmet she seems to regard Shepard as if she were a bug on a plate to be studied.

"So you're on the fence," Shepard says, immediately garnering a derisive 'tsk' in response. "You've got to know Tali wouldn't do what she's accused of."

Shepard swears she sees her eyes roll behind the visor. "I know no such thing, nor, frankly, am I particularly inclined to care. We all know this is more of a political situation than anything else. She's but a pawn. I will say," she goes on discretely, "that however stupid the girl may be for sending sentient geth pieces to the _Alarei_ , I admire any attempts to further understand the geth. There are _rumors_ that the scientists aboard were conducting _experiments_. Science is the key to winning this war. Sentimentality like that of _Zaal'Koris_ ' will be the end of us all."

"That's a bold statement." She can't question that science has trumped the all-mighty God. What is a god anyway? Someone who can control everything. Who is God? Miranda Lawson brought her back from the dead. Maybe that's a god. Cerberus is God. Someone who can stop the Reapers is a god. Someone who can claw herself back from death can be God. "You're willing to experiment on something sentient?"

"Please don't tell me you're one of these synthetics sympathizers," she says with exasperation. "They're no more sentient than—what is something you might understand? A coffeemaker or toaster," she waves the thought away. "And _yet_ the stupid things grow smarter when they're lumped together, all accessing a larger reservoir of data and computing power. But in the end they're only machines, created by _my_ people, meant to _serve_. If we could harness their power we may reclaim our planet and perchance even aid you in your fight against the Reapers. If you care nothing for our plight, surely you care for _that_."

Shepard smiles. "You're preaching to the choir, Xen. I don't give a damn what experiments your people do on geth. Just _don't_ screw it up and _don't_ have them rebel. None of our people can afford _that_." Xen shifts where she stands, lifting her chin to study her anew. "Personally, I don't care about what you want or what you admirals bicker about. I want Tali to have her homeworld again. I want her exonerated and cleared of all charges. You're the swing vote."

Xen laughs dryly. "You think you can sway me?"

"If we find anything on that ship that's of interest to you, you'll know of it. _After_ the trial _and_ she's cleared." Xen narrows her eyes. "Have we got a deal, Admiral? Nod once if we do. It's a onetime offer."

"How do I even know you'll get off that ship?"

"Because I don't lose." Shepard looks over to see Tali and Garrus heading over. Xen nods. Smart of her.

* * *

 _I should have known not to trust you. Did you think I wouldn't notice? All Cerberus records have been stricken from the network. I hope you got what you needed. You won't have the opportunity again._

 _Liara_

The email is dramatic but Miranda imagines she might be apoplectic if someone scoured her network and removed any damaging information. The Shadow Broker will have backups, of course, but the data files will take time to reconstruct and might not be fully recoverable given all the havoc they wreaked on the ship. Perhaps Liara will now know better than to throw someone the keys to the Shadow Broker network. Still, she's glad they'd built up enough of a relationship for Liara to entrust her with the information (briefly). Without it she'd never know that Shepard's clone was on the lam.

There have been no known sightings since Horizon. Unfortunately she wasn't quite as persuasive as she might have been with that Samantha Traynor. She's accustomed to demanding answers and getting them. The other alternative would have been holding a gun to the woman's head, but that may have been slightly overzealous. No doubt it would have drawn Shepard's attention.

She doesn't have time to visit Horizon and Liara is in no mood to be charitable with information. She can only remain vigilant. Miranda exits and heads to Port Observation. Kasumi's effects remain: a painting, a collection of books, a rose long wilted. A shame what happened. Shepard was careless but has been less so since the incident. Perhaps the loss of life was a lesson well-learned and will result in Shepard being more careful.

Not that she's diplomatic. Tali'Zorah was exonerated, but she's been cooped up, crying privately for days. What is it to mourn a father? Tali's father's actions stemmed out of some misguided love. Henry Lawson only ever acted in his own best interests, everyone else be damned.

She frowns and peruses the room. The only thing that mattered to Kasumi Goto was that graybox. It was the only reason she joined the suicide mission. It cost her her life and in the end she didn't get it. Losses are to be expected. She looks at the bottles of alcohol and considers them before moving on. There's a small wooden decorative box on the nightstand beside the bed. Miranda sits, sighs, contemplates everything before them. Her fingers tease along the grooves of the lid before opening it. She pulls it onto her lap.

There are letters. Romantic in nature. She smiles ruefully. She's never received a letter of this sort and imagines she'd roll her eyes were she to get one. Courtship has only ever been businesslike and efficient. Romance requires whimsy and flightiness, none which she has ever been afforded. She considers searching through the box. There are photographs of Kasumi and Keiji, cards of various art galleries. Beneath them all is a picture of Kasumi, years ago, hood free, with an older, striking woman with dark eyes and an unreadable smile. Miranda turns the picture over. _With Sasha: post-heist!_

Miranda narrows her eyes on the woman. She's... _familiar._

She takes the photograph and tells herself she isn't being sentimental. She shuts the box and moves back to her office. She sets it beside her computer. Who is she...? It doesn't matter, she supposes. It could be she has one of those faces—but that's unlikely.

The suicide mission is quickly approaching. The Reaper IFF is in hand. It won't be too much longer until they move through the Omega-4 Relay and still she has the matter of the Shepard scraps on her hands. She thinks of the Indian woman at the Dark Star Lounge. Her easiest opportunity to gather information and she blew it. Fortunately, she has found her email address and she isn't one to give up easily.

 _To: Samantha Traynor [ straynor ]_

 _From: ML [ ML ]_

 _Ms. Traynor,_

 _I'm writing regarding the conversation we had about the incident at Horizon with your mother and father. Your cooperation would be appreciated._

— _ML_

 _All correspondence in this email is classified and only for the designated individuals. Breaching privacy and confidentiality is punishable to the maximum extent of the law or as seen fit by the originating organization, individuals or group._

She's studying the photo when a new email pops up on her screen.

 _To: ML [ ML ]_

 _From: Samantha Traynor [ straynor ]_

 _Who is this?_

There's a signature:

 _You cannot play chess if you are kindhearted._

Miranda narrows her eyes. This will be difficult.

* * *

More than half a year has passed since she lost those people who were her parents. They were arrested, branded as war criminals working for the terrorist organization: Cerberus. Oriana would not have believed it had she not seen abundant documentation throughout the years. She had long been sought by her real father: Henry Lawson, was sold and kidnapped as a child by an older sister, Miranda Lawson, a Cerberus agent and used as a bargaining chip to keep her father away.

Henry has allowed her to send letters to the people she thought were her parents but she has received no response. Maybe they're ashamed. It should be easy to stop loving them. They've been involved in countless war crimes. She never thought anything of their trips when she was younger. They always returned with stories and gifts, smiles and bear hugs. They loved her. Maybe they still do, as she loves them.

Now she has Henry Lawson. He has been polite. He has allowed her to study on Thessia. He has had her undergo rigorous physical examinations to make sure she was not harmed in some way. When she protests, she is told, gently, that Cerberus agents are cunning and do untold harm without the victim ever knowing.

She doesn't consider herself a victim.

She goes to school. She had a good upbringing. Niket comes around sometimes. He sports nicer clothing than he did when she first met him. The dark wraparound glasses he always wears are pricey designer glasses now. When she asks to see his eyes, he fidgets and mutters something about a "condition." He doesn't like it when she asks about Miranda. She thinks they may have been friends. He only ever confirms that the woman known as Miranda Lawson is in fact her sister and did in fact kidnap her when she was a baby.

Oriana has searched the extranet extensively. There's almost no information on her. All that is known is that she is a Cerberus agent, just as Henry has said she is. Great. Her sister is the poster girl of a terrorist organization. They have the same face but Miranda never seems to smile. Henry has told her Miranda is cold, calculating, dangerous. There are some shots of her with Commander Shepard: a tall, olive-skinned woman with eyes that are brown in some pictures, blue in others, her expression always challenging, threatening. What's it like knowing Commander Shepard? Isn't Shepard a hero? Why does Shepard spend time with a known criminal? Henry told her Shepard works for Cerberus. All extranet reports say the same. _They will come after you. Do not trust them._

Oriana reclines against the cafe chair and stares at the cerulean skies. Her fellow students wander past, chatting and gossiping about the professors, marks in classes and potential partners to meet at upcoming parties. Most of the asari are at least twice her age—and even then they're considered young. A few non-traditional students are hundreds of years old. Enyala sits beside her, surveying the campus with clear disinterest. The asari has been with her a little over half a year, her own personal bodyguard. She and Niket were the ones who came to Ilium to get her after her parents were dragged away. Her _adoptive_ parents. After all this time she can't make the correction in her mind. Henry would like for her to think of him as a father. It's taking some getting used to.

"Don't you get bored?" Oriana asks Enyala. "If she was really after me wouldn't she have gotten to me by now?" She keeps her voice casual but the thought of the Miranda woman and her Cerberus pals coming after her is terrifying. Especially if it's Commander Shepard. How could anyone stand up to them?

"Listen, zygote, you worry about acing your exams and being all you can be and let me handle the security details, all right?" She folds her arms on the table and takes a drink of tea. A turian and human male think of approaching the table but a severe look from Enyala gets them moving on their way.

Oriana wonders who her real mother is. "Do you know anything about my sister? Uh, Miranda Lawson?"

"Prissy bitch working for an organization who wants human supremacy. Not the kind that's really welcome around here."

Oriana considers that. To her knowledge, Miranda studied on Thessia as well. She's had to find all of this out on her own; Niket, her father, and Enyala haven't been forthcoming on details. If Miranda hates aliens then why study on Thessia? She thinks of her parents. She thinks of Henry Lawson. How horrible to have one daughter turn against her father and hold the younger one hostage. She imagines the icy woman with her face from the photographs leveling a gun at an infant's head and pulling the trigger. What kind of monster is she?

She recalls the time Enyala suggested her parents may not be alive at all, that Miranda and Shepard may have taken them out while in captivity to keep their mouths shut. When Oriana asks about it, no one responds. They avert their eyes and treat her like some porcelain doll. Is that why her parents don't respond to her? Are they dead? Did Miranda and Shepard kill them? A chill spreads over her, despite the gentle warmth of the day.

She touches the back of her neck and finds the plugs for the biotic amp. She hasn't been outfitted for one yet. Henry told her she has always had the ability, no matter how others have attempted to prevent her from living up to her full potential. There's so much more to learn now. Those physics classes are on another level entirely. She should be excited. She fights to keep her eyes from watering and clears her throat gently. "I don't understand how any one person could be so terrible."

Enyala smiles in that way of hers. "You'd be surprised at the nasty things people do to hold on to their secrets."

* * *

Hope massages her forehead as she looks over the visitors menu. On Thessia, nearly everything is naturally infused with eezo. It's part of the biosphere, the reason all asari are biotics. For months she's been _stuck_ eating the same bland, expensive, imported foods, because she can't eat like the natives. Grace hasn't smiled at her in just as long. As she helps herself to generous servings (lucky to be a biotic), Hope swears the woman is silently gloating.

Hope hates Thessia. Everything is clean and smooth; everyone pats themselves on the back. There are aliens everywhere. There is a bloody sea of asari. Grace has been using the old hologram: the redhead with near shoulder length hair, a sprinkle of freckles along her nose and cheeks, pale with lipstick that's a little too red. The disguise is attractive but it isn't Hope's preference.

Grace has been sleeping on the couch of their hotel. Some nights she doesn't bother coming home. Other times she flirts brazenly with the asari at the restaurants and shops. She is wasting their time and she knows it. She dragged her here after initially ditching her on Horizon. Hope frowns as Grace exchanges smiles with the asari waitress who is young, she thinks, but wears too much makeup. The asari asks Grace what she's doing later. Hope clears her throat and Grace has a drink of water, deflecting the question.

"What's your problem?" Grace asks when the waitress moves on her way.

Hope doesn't know. "This isn't going to work if you keep doing this." There's a pause. The green eyes flick to hers. They're not too different from Grace's, really. But Grace's eyes tend to go green when she's angry. This disguise she's chosen for herself has jade eyes that always seem to burn. Maybe she's furious. She's too emotional. "You can't continue being angry. I told you that I'm sorry. Get over it."

Grace narrows her eyes. She looks into the crowd of university students. She has been intent on spending her time at the library of this particular university, renowned for both its architecture and collection of books, music, art and vids. "You could just go."

Hope bites her tongue and stares at her warped reflection on the fork. She forces herself to breathe in slowly. She finds a cloth napkin and folds it over her lap as the pretty, young waitress of before returns with bread. She apologizes to Hope, telling her it's infused with eezo too. Hope ignores her. "That isn't how this works and you know it." She leans forward slightly. "For fuck's sake, you didn't know him. You know me."

"That the problem. I do know you. Or I don't." Her fingers clench on the table. She flattens them and they turn into a fist again. Hope considers covering her hand but looks away instead. She wraps her fingers around the glass of water but doesn't drink. "Have you ever told me anything true?"

"Yes."

"Like what?"

Hope could lie. But lies that have always served her so well are what are destroying this... arrangement. She desperately searches her mind for something true and falls short. She is disappointed in herself. Grace stands and wads the napkin in her hand, throwing it on top of the table.

"I need some air," Grace tells her, the bitter disappointment giving her expressionless face away. Hope scoots her chair back but stops when Grace looks at her. "Alone."

Hope listens to the birds chirp and watches her walk away. She has to tell her the truth. She has to tell her the truth the best way she can. She'll lose everything if she doesn't. She has another drink of water to soothe her aching throat and stands. She's dizzy and nervous. It's time.

* * *

They've been exchanging emails for weeks now. It wouldn't be so pressing if there had been any information of any other Shepard sighting. Unfortunately there hasn't been and she's been forced into a game of tag with the all too coy Samantha Traynor. She looks over their email history, unnaturally vexed.

 _Ms. Traynor,_

 _It's unlikely you've been peddling the story of your parents around to various parties. I hope you understand the sensitivity of this situation. Your discretion is appreciated._

— _ML_

 **I've managed to trace your email signature to various systems. Fascinating! Are you in the Alliance? You're not a pirate, are you? Though if you are I have to admire your succinct and polite messages. Some space diva, perhaps?**

— **Ms. Traynor (if you're nasty)**

 **You cannot play chess if you are kindhearted.**

 _Ms. Traynor,_

 _My time is a valuable commodity and I have little to spend on games. We spoke at the Dark Star Lounge about the incident on Horizon. You must have been heavily under the influence if you don't remember me._

— _ML_

 _Ms. Traynor,_

 _I'm unsure if you received my last reply as I've received no response. I'll paste again:_

 _My time is a valuable commodity and I have little to spend on games. We spoke at the Dark Star Lounge about the incident at Horizon. You must have been heavily under the influence if you don't remember me._

— _ML_

 _As I said, time is of the essence. I understand the duties of a first-lieutenant, but surely you have some time to respond._

 _Warmly,_

 _ML_

 _Ms. Traynor,_

 _It has been weeks since your last correspondence. I have your schedule in front of me. I understand you have a passion for chess and other strategy games. Your time might be better served on a physical regime. You're under the suggested minimum for pull-ups, which can only lead me to believe you have weak arms. I have been polite about this. We can do this the easy way or we can do it the hard way. My preference and talent is for the hard way._

— _M_

 **"M",**

 **Firstly, I'll have you know I've never received complaints about my arms or their strength, thank you very much. Secondly, have you any idea how hard it is to do a bloody pull up? It leaves your arms feeling like a limp noodle for days. Normally I'd be indignant about your clearly creepy and stalker-like overtures, but a few heart pumping experiences in the past from very attached ex-girlfriends have prepared me for circumstances such as these. Fortunately for me, I'm not all good looks, and while you have been spamming me with a constant stream of emails, I've been pinging your location. The past few weeks you have been at Pragia, Tuchanka and Haestrom, amongst others. Are you some sort of criminal on the run? I remember you from the DSL. You were a bit of a bitch then, too. Look, I'm not telling you anything, so back off. My parents' lives are off limits. They've been through enough without you adding to it. _And_ for that matter, don't think to threaten me. I know straight, off-kilter women can be terrifying but you have no idea what I've been through.**

— **Ms. Traynor**

 **You cannot play chess if you are kindhearted.**

 **P.S. You don't know even a little bit about buttering a girl up, do you?**

 **P.P.S. Mock me for my love of strategy games if you must but have you any idea how satisfying it is to decrypt and trace encrypted communications? I believe you're currently in the vicinity of Omega. Tell me I'm right?**

Miranda smiles wryly at the most recent exchange and picks up the photograph of before. Kasumi and 'Sasha'. She's certain she knows the woman, 'Sasha', though the name doesn't click. Miranda met her years ago. How old was she? Miranda was seventeen when she joined Cerberus. Eighteen years ago. It was some Cerberus function, some gala. Miranda can only recall a woman slightly older than her, talking to some scientists. She wore a blue dress and dazzled the group she was with.

Cerberus has many cells, most unknown to each other. Her position in the organization doesn't matter. The way the Illusive Man claims to value her doesn't matter. The information is confidential and were she to talk to the Illusive Man, he'd likely pat her on the head and tell her to focus on the mission. She doesn't have a list of Cerberus agents handy. That information is classified. Just like whatever they did with that geth they turned over.

She searches Kasumi's room and finds nothing else on 'Sasha'. The trail is long cold. Going to Liara for help is out of the question. Miranda sits at her desk. She has the Cerberus data from the Shadow Broker network. All this time later and it's the first time she's thought to look at it.

She searches the archives. There are photos to go with names she's only ever read or heard before. There are more cells than she even imagined, wildly experimental projects that don't just walk the line of ethics but take a running leap and jump over it.

There's the Phantom Project. The Nemesis Project. There are new implants with untold potential. There's a picture of a scarred creature titled X3. Another one labeled X8 shows only a grainy photograph of the same woman Miranda saw on the feed from New Canton—the one with clear, almost innocent eyes. X8 PRIORITY ONE: Capture Alive At All Costs.

Miranda keeps the window open on the laptop and opens another one. She searches through staff dossiers for hours until her eyes burn. She rubs at them and foregoes reading the details, dully clicking through the pictures until she stops at one. A dark woman with eyes that are both inviting and cold, the same suggestion of a smile on her full lips.

Miranda picks up the photograph. That's her. Sasha. Rasa. Hope Lilium. Ms. Brooks. She's been with Cerberus as long as Miranda has. The details are sparse. The aliases are countless. She was charged with creating the dossiers for the suicide mission. Their entire crew, their last hope for stopping the Collectors is her doing. Miranda vaguely recalls a woman talking to her at some point – perhaps the same woman – but Miranda was too preoccupied with other matters, including bringing Shepard back.

Wide awake now, she digests what little information there is to nibble on. This… Rasa knew Kasumi. She wrote the dossier, got her on the mission. And... not too long later, she broke into the Cerberus clone facility, murdered Jones and escaped with X8. She's also priority one: kill on sight. Did Kasumi work with her? Did Kasumi spy for her? Miranda can't imagine any good reason to escape with a Shepard clone—except to use Shepard's identity to subvert... what?

She stands but doesn't pace. Her mind races. Kasumi's gone. She can no longer ask her. Was Kasumi her only mole? Could there be others? How would they communicate? EDI monitors all transmissions. There have been no anomalies. She sits but finds it difficult to remain still. She types.

 _Dear Ms. Traynor,_

 _Though I regret that the matter with your parents is off limits, except to those fortunate girl friends in dark clubs, I'm hoping you'll be so kind as to lend your assistance in another way. You fancy games so I have a query for you. If you were a spy aboard a military frigate, how would you manage communications with a handler so they went undetected? I eagerly await to see if your reputation as a talented communications specialist is well-earned._

— _ML_

Minutes later she receives a response.

 **ML,**

 **A game! Now you've got my attention! You said you don't like games but here you've gone and called me "dear" and everything so I imagine this is very, very serious.**

 **Spies and a military frigate! It sounds like a scenario out of one of my strategy games. Normally I'd make you beg and squirm until I was good and ready but I'm feeling benevolent today. My opponents don't usually look like you—I suppose this is what going up against me must be like. Well—to answer your question, if I were a devious little spy sending messages to a handler—QEC would be the way to go. Fairly obvious, I'm sure, but not normally thought of for smaller operations—it would cost a fortune. A fortune that the right sort of spy would have access to. If you hid the unit away somewhere—a closet or under a bed—well, maybe not under a bed—I could tell you stories—just an area without a lot of traffic, cameras or prying eyes—I'd say you'd have yourself a winner and no one would be the wiser. I'm curious now but I'm sure you won't tell me. Good luck with that dastardly spy.**

 **—Samantha**

 **You cannot play chess if you are kindhearted.**

Miranda's ire dwindles. She stands slowly, feeling numb. Samantha Traynor's records show she's an exceptional Quantum Entanglement Communications specialist. If she's as good as they say and this is possible it could mean... a breach... a double agent.

Her office chair slams into the wall as she exits the room.

* * *

X3 is challenged openly on the range by Nemesis Agent 58326. Others call him Michael. He is one of the few males in the program. His musculature is adequate. He is somewhat tall and angular. He is a skilled marksman, though he is often overlooked in favor of Annalise, whom X3 has noticed being observed by everyone. Her new partner is friendly, and prone to receiving smiles. She is talented at seeming oblivious.

Agent 58326 throws an M-98 Widow at X3. The throw is unexpected, as is the weight. Eighty-five pounds. She catches it somewhat clumsily. The onlooking soldiers laugh. Annalise crosses her arms. They're thin and well-defined. What do they look like beneath the black bodysuit? The implants the Nemesis soldiers are equipped with make sense now. The sniper rifle is heavy and cumbersome. It lacks the elegance of the light blade strapped to her back.

X3 looks at 58326. The group surrounding him is in good spirits.

"Nice catch!" The words don't match his expression. X3 frowns gingerly. "I know you're the favorite around here." She loads the M-98 Widow. "But you don't have shit on me with a sniper rifle." One of his soldier friends had previously thrown two bottles into the air. 58326 hit both. His assertion is erroneous. X3 lifts the sniper rifle up and down, calibrating her body to the weight.

"You've got this," Annalise says to her.

X3 doesn't understand the necessity for vocally articulating the obvious. Several soldiers whistle when 58326 launches three bottles in the air. X3 takes a breath and holds it. Her arms strain as she lifts the M-98 Widow and blasts off the first shot. The bottle shatters. Her arm nearly does, too, from the kickback. She reloads in what feels like slow motion before dispersing the second round. Green glass erupts like fireworks. The third bottle was hurled straight up into the sky. X3 admires the powerful throw of the Nemesis soldiers. She drops the sniper rifle and withdraws the blade from her back, slashing quickly as the bottle falls between her and 58326.

The bottle halves as if hinged before separating and dropping in two neat pieces at their feet. The tip of her blade is at 58326's neck. Everyone's quiet, though she's done the right thing, the good thing. The competition was never fair. A fat drop of blood sits on the tip of her blade. Everyone makes jokes but they all bleed the same.

The soldiers grumble and leave save for Annalise who remains further ahead. The incoming wind in the grey skies lashes her blonde hair. X3 has seen her staring discretely at a photograph when she thinks no one sees her. Kai Leng would think Annalise pathetic, would find her as disappointing as he does X3, as the ones who try to get a rise out of her do.

X3 returns to the barracks, Annalise at her side. "You scare the shit out of them," she tells X3 as if it were natural, just the way of things. Does Shepard scare people? Does that other copy?

* * *

Grace knows Hope is behind her but doesn't slow. Hope is a liar. Hope can't be trusted. Hope doesn't care about her.

Thessia was intended to be a pointless rebellion. She never expected to fall in love with the planet. She loves the people and the architecture. She likes how the arts are celebrated and diplomacy is revered. She likes the skies that look like oceans of color colliding in the evenings and the shy smiles of asari maidens, the way they press against her in nightclubs when they're dancing in the dark.

She likes the food, light and energizing, diverse and colorful. Hope hasn't enjoyed it, which was part of the plan to begin with. Grace misses her. They've been on Thessia months now and have made love less than a handful of times. The encounters were more like what happened on Therum, leaving her cold, bruised and invigorated.

Hope didn't call her Shepard then. She pulled at her lower lip and told her she hated her face—that of the hologram. Grace doesn't care for the visage. Strangers think it attractive enough but it isn't her face. Even her own face isn't her face. But when she and Hope are violent together it absolves her of responsibility. Not that any hologram can change her feelings. Those behaviors of Shepard that Grace abhors still fill her with electric pleasure.

She should walk away. It's simple enough. Hope isn't forcing her to do anything. Grace understands that they're on even footing. She would wager that Hope needs her a good deal more than she needs her, if for no other reason than the great charade. But Grace loves Hope. It obliterates the leverage.

 _Grace. We need to talk._

It's Hope. Grace doesn't hear the words. There's a young woman, a brunette with eyes the color of pale diamonds. Her lips are full, her gaze piercing and intelligent. She is stunning. Grace recognizes her. The hair is different, but she's seen that woman's face on the extranet. Cerberus pet, Miranda Lawson. Grace hones in on her and moves closer. The brunette looks at her curiously, but the asari beside her jumps to her feet. She does something with her omni-tool. There's a snap of electricity, and Grace's holo-mask burns against her neck. Her disguise is gone.

Troublesome but not daunting. Grace heads straight for the brunette. No matter who Hope may be, Grace won't allow a Cerberus agent to go free. She won't risk it. The Miranda woman looks at her just as Grace touches the Paladin at her side. She seems too young. Is it really her...? Her eyes fill with terror at Grace's true face. Some part of Grace is gratified, while some other piece burns with shame.

The asari hurls a warp field at her, staggering her, eating into her shields. The girl—woman—screams and runs past her. The asari surges forward, catching Grace in a biotic slam and sending her sprawling backwards. She slides and rolls several feet before stopping. Numbing pain shoots through her as her limbs begin to throb. Grace thinks Thessia is too beautiful and peaceful a planet for fighting. The thought is naive, perhaps.

"Not today, Shepard!" the asari says, straddling her. Grace's barrier is weak from the warp. The food she's been eating helps with biotic powers, but the same goes for everyone else here. "You and Cerberus can go straight to hell!" Her fist connects viciously with her face.

She cocks her fist back and throws it toward her again, but Grace catches it and twists, throwing the asari onto her side and getting to her feet hastily. University students are running in all directions as the asari unhooks a Venom shotgun from her back. One blast of that at this range would be enough to reduce her to a bloody mist. Grace wipes the blood from her mouth. "I don't know who you are, but back off. I'm not who you think I am."

Hope isn't behind her. Has she cloaked? Has she decided it isn't worth it? No time to mourn any possible loss. The asari brings the Venom to ready position. Grace biotically yanks the cluster of now empty tables and chairs near them, they groan and creak as they wrap and stack around the asari like a prison. For an instant she's trapped. Grace scrambles for cover behind the statue of a matriarch and unholsters the Paladin. A moment later Grace hears tables and chairs crashing and the screaming of a very pissed off asari. This shit again. No matter where she goes, trouble follows her. She may not have started this but she'll be damned sure to finish it.

* * *

Hope gives chase. The girl's fast but she won't get very far in the asari-style dress she wears. That's the problem with asari. They're not practical. They live so damned long they're never in a hurry to get anywhere. Whoever the asari is, she's given away "Shepard's" position. No doubt this girl heard the asari. They can't afford leaks.

Hope catches up to her and snatches her arm viciously. Though she struggles to get free she stills as Hope unhooks the Phalanx at her side and brings the barrel her head. She inhales sharply.

"Are you with my sister?" she asks, voice trembling. Hope narrows her eyes and looks at her—really looks at her. She bites back a smile. _You have got to be kidding me._ "Please, let me go," she takes a desperate look back at the asari and Grace who are trading shots and battering one another in combat.

"I'm going to lower my gun. If you make a sound I _will_ shoot you. Understood?" She hits the side of the girl's head gently with the gun to send the message before tucking it back into its holster. They watch one another apprehensively. "You must be Oriana." She cocks her head to look at the girl. Miranda looked much the same when she was her age—her hair was never cut so short and her expressions tend towards arrogance, but otherwise… "Why did you run?" Oriana frowns in response. Hope steps closer. "You didn't know I had a gun. And even if that _were_ Shepard—she's a hero."

"I know Miranda's after me. I know that she and Commander Shepard murdered my parents," she spits out. Fiery thing. Unlike her icy bitch of a sister. "So what now? Are you planning on taking me back to her and Cerberus?" Hope smiles again. "Why did you wait so long to come after me?" she looks back again.

Hope imagines the overly aggressive asari was meant to guard her. She hears the bang of the Paladin before the campus falls quiet again. Oriana is motionless, even as her eyes glisten. Hope can't tell if they're angry tears or fearful tears, maybe even sad tears. She refuses to let them spill. Grace walks up to them, her face and clothing stained dark blue. Crimson dots her mouth and nose, bruises are forming along her face and neck. Her eyes cycle between green and blue. Grace looks from her to Oriana. "Problem?" Hope asks.

"Not anymore." Grace keeps her eyes on the girl.

"It's not her," Hope says. Oriana stares at a bloody Grace. Hope can't say the color looks terrible on her. She looks back to the asari's crumpled body. "But I think it's best if we go ahead and take her with us." She touches the barrel of the gun to the small of Oriana's back. "Don't worry," she says softly, "do as we say and no harm will come to you." Another gentle nudge and Oriana moves forward.

"You killed her," Oriana says vehemently to Grace.

Grace walks alongside of her. "Was that a friend?" Oriana doesn't respond but Grace apologizes anyway. Hope bites the inside of her lip. She can't exactly tell Grace about who she is with the brat around but it'd be foolish to leave her. This girl is the only thing Miranda Lawson has ever cared about. That makes her valuable.

* * *

Kasumi's room is clear. Thane's room is clear. Samara's room is clear. All of the squad members' rooms are clear. They may be working with an unsavory lot but none appear to be the mole. Not even the psychotic convict. Miranda walks through the _Normandy_ with brisk determination. She has had EDI search extensively through logged footage. Nothing has been found.

Miranda asks instead to pinpoint any blind areas on the ship. There are precious few. The shower and bathrooms are cleared. The crew quarters are cleared as is the medical bay and the AI core. Kelly Chambers, sensing she's on a warpath, has kept out of her way. Garrus and Tali'Zorah may be useful but Miranda can't trust them now.

She foregoes the elevator and takes the stairs down to Engineering. Donnelly and Daniels straighten when they see her. Tali narrows her eyes before turning away. Miranda ignores them and moves to the lower levels. Jack lies on a cot, spindly arms folded behind her head. They look at one another before Jack turns on her side to face the wall, her bony back looking as if bird wings have been chopped away. She's been quieter since Shepard sided with her against Miranda after the Pragia incident. Miranda tries not to dwell on all the ways Shepard has been against her. Shepard has been better lately. Miranda must be satisfied with that. It's what the Illusive Man would want. They don't work with who they do because of any goodness.

Miranda continues along Engineering, past the dark hallways where the freezers and pantry are behind closed doors. She opens the freezer door. It's the size of her office. She enters and watches fog pass her lips when she breathes. Refrigerators and freezers line the floor like coffins. She opens them. Their supplies are dwindling. They'll have to stop and pick up some reserves soon. It appears Gardner was right to constantly complain.

The freezers and fridges are half-filled with frozen vegetables and what may or may not be meat. There aren't even any good snacks. Worst of all (best of all?) no QEC device. It's possible that Samantha Traynor is wrong. Perhaps she isn't a clever specialist after all—or perhaps the mole isn't so devious. She exits the freezer room and glances at the pantry. She's all the way out here so she might as well.

Any fire and heat of before has long dwindled with every moment of non-discovery. A calm has filled her. She opens the pantry doors. Soups. Beans. Some past the expiration date. She may have to apologize to Gardner after all. She continues to search, mentally noting what will have to be replaced.

Olives. Oh. She likes this brand and had thought they were out. She picks the jar up and sets it aside to keep before shifting a few more cans around. That's when she sees it. She doesn't breathe. She doesn't shake. She takes the device, barely bigger than a can of beans, just as heavy, and picks it up. Her mouth is dry. _Shit. **Shit.**_

Swallowing she replaces it and takes the jar of olives, closing the pantry doors. She stands there contemplating when Gardner walks into the room. He nearly jumps to see her. "How could you?" He tenses. Miranda waves the jar at him. "You've been hiding these from me all along."

He relaxes. "Sorry, Princess. I'll make sure to send the next shipment straight to your office." He stands awkwardly. "Think you could talk to Shepard about getting some spices in?"

"Doubtful. We're on the last leg of our run." She nods at the freezer room. "By the way, I noticed the cooling system has started to fail. Do you _think_ , Gardner? How are we expected to fight with rotting food?"

"The cooling system is working just fine. It was," he says worriedly. "Good fucking God, it's always something around here." He steps into the freezer room. Miranda follows, shutting the door behind them.

* * *

There's been no word from Liara. Shepard tries not to worry. Liara peered into her mind. Shepard let her despite the fear. Liara isn't shy anymore. If she knew about Morinth she'd tell her. Liara is different now. Wiser. Colder. Maybe she knows and doesn't care. She has a Shadow Network to run. She's busy. _Too busy to email?_ Yes. Too busy to email.

She stands in front of the fish tank, hands laced behind her back. The colorful fish bodies bob up and down. She cleaned the tank but forgot to feed them. It seems a stupid mistake. She finds herself angry at Kelly for making her get them. No doubt she'll make some note in her charts about her so-called mental state. Fucking psychologists.

The door to the cabin opens. Miranda strides in. Shepard straightens. Miranda has never visited her cabin. They've been getting along. They've become something like partners despite their disagreements. Miranda crosses the steps between them. She's a little paler than usual. There's a speck of red on her cheek. Shepard reaches up to wipe it away with her thumb. It smears, striking along her pale skin. Miranda narrows her eyes at the contact. "You all right?" Shepard asks. Eventually her hand falls away.

Miranda gives a stiff nod. "We had a mole. Gardner."

Shepard doesn't move. "Damn it, Miranda. How did you not know about this? How did EDI not know? I thought Cerberus was on top of this."

"He was using a QEC device to transmit data. It's undetectable," Miranda watches her march to the door. "It's been taken care of, Shepard." Shepard stops, trying to slow her racing heartbeat, the hot rage filling her. "I'll work on finding out who he was transmitting to. For now, we need you to focus on the mission. We're almost done." There's a beat. "I hope this incident with Gardner hasn't soured your opinion of Cerberus."

"He's one man. And you took care of it." She waits. Miranda is staring at the dead fish but makes no comment. "He won't be a problem?" Miranda allows a small smile, the same one she brandished during their introduction, when she handled Wilson. "Good." Miranda heads to the cabin door, only stopping when Shepard calls her name. "I was wrong about Cerberus. I was wrong about you. I'm glad you're here."

"Likewise, Commander," she says haltingly. She leaves.

Shepard stares at the dead fish for some time longer before sitting at the desk chair, taking the Reaper IFF and tossing it into the air, catching it. She sets it down when her nose begins to bleed. She holds a towel to her nose and calls for Kelly to clean the fish tank. She composes another email to Liara. She gets comfortable. It seems silly now, how much time and energy she wasted on fighting with the Illusive Man and Cerberus. Miranda's on her side. Cerberus is on her side. She can't lose.

* * *

The Illusive Man swallows a bite of steak, following it with a sip of red wine from an elegant, long-stemmed glass. The incredibly tender steak is genuine beef from a famed breed of cattle found only in Japan. The wine is a pinot noir, an 8-year old vintage from an Argentine vineyard. Complementing the plate is a small pile of roasted Brussels sprouts, lightly coated in olive oil and seasoned with salt and freshly ground pepper. In a very fine restaurant on Earth, it would be an expensive dinner. Halfway across the galaxy on a secret space station, it's an exorbitant one. Fortunately, he hasn't needed to concern himself with the cost of things in a very long time.

As he dines, he reviews the latest report from Miranda Lawson. A mole was discovered. Miranda dealt with him. Evidently, Rasa selected Rupert Gardner for reasons beyond his handyman experience and mediocre cooking skills. There's no proof yet that Rasa was the one handling Gardner, but it won't take long for his analysts to find the connection, the exact point at which their paths intersected. It was she that turned Gardner, of that he has little doubt.

Leng said he killed Rasa, but she has always been extraordinarily resourceful. It's no coincidence that a woman matching her description has been reported in the company of 'Shepard' multiple times since her supposed demise on Bekenstein. Rasa is still at large, but her motivations remain unclear. This is troubling. It's a puzzle he will need to solve.

As for Miranda, he suspects she's been poking around where she doesn't belong. He has only to look at her search history and use a little imagination. He's tempted to read through the recent slew of emails she has sent and received, but she would know immediately that he violated her privacy. He knows that her loyalty to him has already been strained. The incident with Oriana was unfortunate, but he simply didn't have the resources in place on Illium to intervene on her behalf. He isn't without sympathy, but Miranda's inability to convince Shepard to help her was her own failure. Miranda understands this as well as anyone.

Soon, Shepard will take the _Normandy_ through the Omega-4 Relay. The Reaper IFF has been secured, and Miranda's report indicates the crew is sufficiently ready. Despite their rocky start and Miranda's early misgivings, Shepard has proven to be cooperative and capable. The many sacrifices, the years of careful planning, the billions of credits poured into recruiting the best talent and developing new technologies—it's all finally about to come to fruition.

The last Brussels sprout disappears from the plate, leaving it bare. He places the knife and fork on the plate and nudges it away. A long-legged brunette wrapped in a tight, black dress quickly steps forward, heels clicking sharply on the floor. She hands him a warm, wet towel before clearing the plate from the table.

"Will there be anything else, sir?" Her scent is alluring, but her demeanor is professional. "Some dessert, perhaps?"

He dabs at the corner of his mouth. "Just some more wine. And please let Marcel know the steak was superb." He wishes his field operatives were as reliable and consistent as his personal chef.

"Very good, sir," she replies, smoothly pouring more wine into his glass. "He will be pleased to hear it. Also, Mister Leng is waiting to speak with you on holo."

He takes a sip of the wine. "Thank you, Miss Piper. Let him know I'm ready to see him."

"At once, sir." She leaves the room.

The Illusive Man rises and moves to the chair at the center of the room. He takes his customary seat, crosses one leg over the other, and activates the holo-transmitter. Moments later, Leng's image flickers into focus over the holo-pad. The assassin stands with his arms crossed behind his back.

"Report, Operative Leng."

Leng stiffens slightly. "The Nemesis and Dragoon projects are up and running. The early results for both are promising. I recommend increasing recruitment efforts for both programs."

"Noted. What about X3?"

"Her telekinetic abilities are stunted, but her barriers are strong and her martial skills are notable."

The Illusive Man nods. "Is she ready for fieldwork?"

"Yes."

"Good. Continue your oversight of the Phoenix training facility for now, but be ready to move when I call. Paul Grayson remains at large, as do X8 and Rasa."

Leng scowls at the mention of Rasa. "Yes sir."

The Illusive Man dismisses Leng and deactivates the transmitter. He rubs at his temples. Another headache is coming on. Perhaps he shouldn't have had that extra glass of wine. Perhaps it's the stress of having so many Priority One targets loose on the playing field just as the endgame is coming into sight. Perhaps it's the knowledge that Cerberus is all that stands between an army of indestructible, mass-murdering machines and galactic civilization.

He reaches into his inner breast pocket and produces a silver cigarette case and a black lighter. A few practiced motions later, there's a lit cigarette in his hand and a relaxing billow of warm smoke in his lungs. He rotates his chair and looks to the transparent outer wall of his sanctum as he exhales.

Outside, a red dwarf star burns, bathing the room in a soft, vermilion hue. He finds it comforting to be in such close proximity to a dying star, so near to death and beauty. Nothing quite so perfectly embodies the cycle of life and death as a star. Stars grant the spark of life, and without their nurturing presence, life withers. Venture too close, and be consumed in wrathful fire. Stray too far, and suffer an icy death of neglect. The ancient humans who named the planets of the solar system after deities had it wrong. Only the stars may lay claim to godhood. It's a realization that gives way to a final comfort.

Even gods must die.


	16. The Suicide Mission

"We should go dancing."

Garrus looks at Tali. They're in an apartment in the slums. Omega is a filthy shithole. It's odd being back. It isn't the kind of place Tali should spend time in. Too bright, too good. Besides, she's a quarian. A tear to her suit in a place like this would likely do her in. She's been hiding away on the _Normandy_. She hasn't wanted to talk. She's been strong. It's good to hear an inkling of enthusiasm in her voice. He can't think of a time he's felt so helpless. He and his father aren't on the best of terms. What would he do if his old man died without things resolved between them? It wasn't until after Rael'Zorah was killed that Garrus learned Tali and her father also had a strained relationship. She internalizes things.

The credits to _Fleet and Flotilla_ are still rolling. Whoever lived in this apartment is long gone, taken by that plague that was going around. A couch cushion separates them. Lately he's nervous. He chuckles. "They don't call me Archangel because of my dance moves." He thinks she arches an eyebrow. "We only have so much time, don't we?"

The squad left the _Normandy_ to huddle down and discuss the suicide mission. Gardner was a mole. It explains the cooking. He's been taken care of. They've left the ship to prevent further leaks. There may be more. Shepard is distant. Miranda passes news along with the efficiency of a telegram.

"Do you think there's something going on with Shepard and Miranda?" Tali asks. She reaches for the glass on the table, a pink straw sticking out of it. "Shepard used to _hate_ her. Now they spend all their time together." Garrus hadn't thought of it. "Things didn't seem to go well with Shepard and Liara," she goes on, "and Shepard is..." there's too long of a pause. Tali takes a long sip of alcohol. "Amorous."

"I'm sure there's more to it than that." It is odd. Shepard hasn't asked him to tamper with Cerberus equipment. In fact, she told him to restore everything to what it once was. Miranda agreed. It makes sense for them to work together. He doesn't always agree with how Shepard handles things but she gets results. He won't start questioning her now. Miranda has stopped hassling him. He killed Sidonis. He spends most of his time with Tali. He can't complain. "Besides, that would require Miranda to have some blood in her veins. Does she even feel?" he smiles. His face still hurts. Tali laughs quietly. He's never seen Miranda react to anything. "Let's stay in. We'll be off getting ourselves killed soon enough." He gets up and goes to the music system, fumbling with the buttons. Techno beats burst from the speakers. Well, this isn't what he's looking for. He can't figure how to change the station. Too many buttons. He stares at the radio and scratches his forehead. She's next to him. "Uh. Is this all right?"

Her fingers twine with his. "It's all right."

* * *

The blood has been wiped clean. This is the birthplace of her fresh start. Shepard sits on the couch. Morinth stands behind her, long nimble fingers massaging her shoulders. The asari practically purrs. They share this place, this memory, their shared crime. Shepard tilts her head back as Morinth's fingers dig into her neck, finding what is tense and pushing until the layers of muscle feel as if they're coming apart. Painful and pleasurable. It must be what being with an Ardat-Yakshi is like. Morinth said her lovers experienced the most intense pleasure they'd known before they died. Is it true? Or is she a sociopath?

"I want you to visit me after we go through the Omega-4 Relay," Morinth breathes into her ear. Her eyes are like glass. "I know you, Shepard. You can survive anything. You're powerful. Enough to make my mother submit. Enough to kill her." Her hands get to work again. "I want to show you what I'm capable of. You can't imagine the things I can make you feel."

It is tempting. Morinth is a novel creature. Shepard has no doubt they could have carnal, depraved sex. On the nights she can't sleep she thinks of her, dreams of her, chases her in shadowy forests before catching her. Sometimes their words are obliterated by noise. "After the relay," she says. She doesn't mean it. Liara is busy but she won't give up on her. She won't slip. She'll wait for her as long as she breathes.

"I'm looking forward to it. You're nothing like the others I've been with. I want to taste you, Shepard." The irises of Morinth's eyes shift to inky black. Blue fingertips brush over Shepard's face, easing the hair back from her eyes. "We're the same." Her voice is lulling. Seductive.

There's a knock at the door. Morinth's eyes go quartz-like again. She pulls back. Shepard stands. Miranda's at the door. Her genetic tailoring is impressive. She is a spectacular manifestation of human perfection. It makes asari seem overrated. Morinth slinks past her. Miranda looks from her to Shepard. "I was hoping we could talk," Miranda says.

Shepard steps aside.

* * *

The 'Shepard sighting' alert was on her terminal when she returned to the office after the Gardner incident. She wouldn't have thought of Thessia. A young female human has been abducted from a university campus. Her description closely matches that of Oriana. She enrolled half a year ago—around the time of Oriana's abduction from Illium. An asari named Enyala was found dead on the scene. Liara once forwarded her a headshot of an asari titled only 'Enyala,' saying she was involved with Oriana's disappearance. Miranda doesn't believe in coincidence. She tells herself not to hope, but it bleeds out of her.

The Reaper IFF is currently being installed. She has reminded Shepard of necessary _Normandy_ upgrades. She has agreed, but it's late and they take time to install. As Samara slips by, Miranda thinks of what Kelly Chambers said—the asari has been different. Kelly overthinks things but she usually knows better than to waste Miranda's time with pointless drivel.

It is strange that Samara would willingly spend time with Shepard. Their approaches are often at odds though similarly brutal. There are video feeds of Shepard going into Samara's room at all hours of the night. What happens in the quarters is unknown. Miranda can only hazard guesses. "I hadn't expected a justicar to spend her free time with the Butcher of Torfan."

"She plans to kill me after the suicide mission."

Miranda waits. Shepard does not appear affected by the words. Is it a joke? Given Samara's oath to end corruption and stamp it out at any opportunity, Shepard would be a viable candidate for termination. "Does that worry you?"

"No. I can handle her." Shepard watches her. Miranda is still. Shepard nods at the seat beside her. Miranda sits. Shepard is more easygoing these days but she looks tired. Her arm is draped across the back of the couch. "You look good."

"Excuse me?"

"I've been thinking about the suicide mission." She runs a hand over her face, massages her forehead. "The Collectors—The Reapers... there's a lot standing against us."

"Are you having doubts?"

"No." She adjusts on the couch, facing her. Her skin and eyes are clear. The operation was a success. Miranda's doubts have lessened, previous disappointments notwithstanding. Miranda is cautiously optimistic. "How do you feel about yourself?" Miranda waits. "Your father made you. For a legacy. To be his legacy. You made me. Guess I'm your legacy."

Project Lazarus was an ambitious project. She was the only individual who should have been tasked with it. Despite hiccups along the way, she succeeded. Shepard is a success. But she isn't her legacy. Sometimes she worries she's too much like her father. "I didn't make you to be my legacy." She's too sharp. "I brought you back to kill Collectors. To stop the Reapers. Look, Shepard—is there a point in all of this?"

"You and I are the products of science. Not faith. Not ethics. Whatever we have to do to stop the Reapers, we do it. Genetic tailoring, implants, you name it. We don't have the time or luxury to get into moral quandaries. We take what we can and we win at any cost. What we do with what we're given, that's what matters." There's a long pause. "You've been too hard on yourself." Miranda isn't sure she agrees. "You wanted to talk?"

Miranda nods. "This might not be the time." Shepard stands and moves to a stand to grab a decanter. She brings it over with two lowball glasses. The room smells like blood. Miranda's surprised it took her so long to notice. Does Shepard notice? Have they both been around it too long to be bothered by the smell? Shepard pours a glass of scotch and slides it to her. Miranda touches the glass. "I believe I have a lead on my sister. I know she isn't a priority." The words slip easily from her lips despite how her stomach twists. The clone was spotted at the same university around the time the Oriana lookalike disappeared.

Shepard has a drink. The room feels cold. "Last time we were on Omega you said I owed you. I told you to fuck off." She lifts the glass and smiles. Miranda recalls the conversation clearly, much as she loathes to. "I wasn't very nice."

"You're not a nice person." Miranda lifts the glass to her lips. Shepard laughs. "For some time... I thought you were a mistake." Why did she think that? Because she wouldn't help with Oriana? Because she hurt Jacob? She was hotheaded and violent? It seems too personal, irrational. Maybe she was only offended that a personal creation acted like a savage. What did she expect? Perfection? Maybe she is like her father. She drinks. The liquid is fire down her throat.

"And now? Am I still a mistake?"

"I'm still deciding." She sets the glass down. "I don't think it matters. You're all we've got." Spare parts don't count.

"That's candid." Shepard polishes off the rest of her drink. She rubs her forehead. Is it possible to offend her?

"Perhaps too candid." She stands. "I apologize. That was out of line." She's on edge. They're close. If they don't stop the Collectors she can't follow up with Oriana. If they don't stop the Collectors it won't matter. "I know you'll see us through this. Everyone's expendable. Everyone but you. Stop the Collectors. Do that and any loss will be worth it."

Shepard smiles wryly. "I'll try not to kill everyone off." She rises. "I'll stop the Collectors. Then I'll help you get her back."

* * *

Chakwas glances at the Serrice Ice Brandy but decides against it. Shepard has taken the squad off ship but she doesn't know why. Nobody ever tells her anything. Soldiers get hurt and she tends to them. When Cerberus offered her an opportunity to work at Shepard's side she didn't think twice. She isn't stupid. She knows their reputation. She knows what they've done but she knows what Shepard has done, what she's capable of. There's Jeff, too. There's Jeff mostly.

Being an Alliance doctor doesn't afford a woman much time for a family. She put her career first and by the time she thought to reconsider, it was too late. All this time later it's still easier for a man. She's no asari. Still, the men and women she's served alongside have been her family. Those wounds she's tended, bones mended have been more than enough. Lives have been lost—some have hit close. Williams is gone. Liara is different. Losing Shepard was difficult.

So she keeps to herself, keeps an eye on Jeff. The crew comes to her for their colds and the occasional bumps and scrapes they get when Jeff is doing something impressive with the ship. The squad is another matter.

She goes to Engineering and leaves medi-gel packets for Jack, knowing the fool girl won't ask for them when she's feeling angry and punching holes in the walls. She monitors Garrus regularly to make sure there isn't an infection in his face wound. She provides antibiotics (she tries not to giggle at the term) for Tali when she has a tear in her suit. She talks to Grunt who resentfully shares his respect for Commander Shepard with her. Samara gives clipped, polite responses to her inquiries. She never stays longer than she has to. Jacob is sensible and polite; he doesn't like to be prodded. Zaeed bitches and moans, brags about past exploits with some woman named Jesse. When he drinks, he flirts. Sometimes Chakwas appreciates it.

Miranda never asks for anything. Chakwas doesn't offer, knowing she'd be offended. The poor woman has so much on her plate and relies on no one. Shepard is another matter. She is worn and as brash as ever. Her eyes are haunted and unreadable. Chakwas worries about her implants. It was one of their more personal conversations.

The ship rocks and the lights flicker. They shut off completely and Chakwas gets to her feet. They are cloaked in the Terminus systems while they work on upgrades. It's possible it's a glitch.

"EDI?" Chakwas has rarely called on the AI but there are few to turn to while the squad is on Omega.

The lights blink back to life, blood red in color. The emergency lighting comes on. "Dr. Chakwas—take cover. The Collectors are boarding."

* * *

Miranda clutches the collar of her uniform as soon as the door shuts behind her. The crew is gone. Taken. The blasted Reaper IFF… Her fingers go white as she slams a fist against a wall. She is unable to exhale. The door opens unexpectedly behind her. Miranda nearly loses her footing. Strong hands grip her shoulders.

Smooth skin brushes her cheek. The voice in her ear is oddly composed, bereft of its usual arrogance. "We're going to hit those bastards where they are and we're going to get them back. Nod and tell me you understand." Miranda doesn't breathe but she nods. "Good. Now pull yourself together. I need you in the comm room in five."

Shepard releases her and exits the office. Miranda closes her eyes, focuses on her breathing, silently counting the exhalations. When she gets to ten, she opens her eyes and goes to her laptop.

 _To: Samantha Traynor [ straynor ]_

 _From: ML [ ML ]_

 _This is possibly the last email I'll ever send, Specialist. I wanted to thank you for your help. The dastardly spy was caught thanks to your good instincts._

 _Best,_

 _Miranda_

* * *

Tali clings to a railing as the ship bucks. The _Normandy_ 's mass effect field generators are designed to dampen internal inertia, but the battle with the Collectors is clearly overtaxing them. She can feel the heat emanating from the drive core, scorching through her suit.

The ship is taking a beating. Collector drones have breached the hull, despite the recently installed Silaris armor. Garrus went to the cargo hold with Shepard to fight them off. She worries for him. He doesn't talk about it, but she knows he's been carrying a burden. He has concerns about the mission, and about Shepard. Concerns he won't speak aloud—at least not to her. Tali isn't sure to what degree she shares them. Shepard isn't the same as she once was, but how could she be? She died and came back. She's made mistakes, but could anyone have taken them as far as she has?

Garrus has been her rock. They spent much of the previous evening together. They talked for hours about their fathers, duty, life—about everything. Finally, good sense prevailed and Garrus excused himself. They had a suicide mission to rest up for after all.

" _You know," he turned to her, halfway through the door. "When this is all over, I'm going to have a few more questions for you about suit linking."_

 _She smiled and folded her arms. "Good. Maybe I'll answer them."_

Smoke billows from the drive core, along with an alarming amount of electrical discharge. It's the shields; they can't handle the stress. There's nothing more she can do. She lets go of the railing and makes a run for it. An explosion hits her before she can take the second step, propelling her forward. Her head collides with metal, cutting short her scream.

* * *

Shepard can't stop shaking. Fires rage. The _Normandy_ smokes, crashed on the Collector base. Morinth drops down next to her with catlike agility, appraising her as if deciding whether she's worth speaking to. "You never made them any promises. They knew what they were getting into." She moves away to survey the craggy, dry rock that juts out of the ground. The heat is overwhelming. Shepard fumbles with her helmet before getting it off and dry heaving onto a dusty patch of land.

Garrus' shadow looms over her but he says nothing. She can't stop shaking. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It was never supposed to be her. It was never supposed to be Tali. She wasn't supposed to lose people because the same fuckhead Collectors who spaced her the first time pulled the same trick and she wasn't ready.

Her throat is raw. The crew is gone. Tali's dead. Thane is dead, crushed by a collapsed beam. That galaxy's greatest assassin, killed in his quarters by falling debris. It's easy to be angry at someone else. The guilt is corrosive. Her stomach churns.

"Shepard." A hand touches her arm. Miranda. She's paler than usual, beginning to bruise, tired and bright. "We have to get going. EDI and I have been looking at the scans," she says warily. "We'll need to get to the center of the station but it'll require some tech savvy." Shepard makes herself stand straight. Garrus is glaring. Jacob and Mordin are bleeding. Grunt and Jack look anxious. Zaeed looks like he regrets taking the contract. Miranda and Shepard exchange looks. Miranda lowers her voice. "I'm not sure anyone has what it takes. We just lost our only engineer."

Shepard looks at her sharply. "If there isn't a way we'll make one." She turns to the rest. "Listen up!" They look at her, shaken and run down. "We all knew this was likely a one way trip, but I'll be damned if we go without taking the Collectors down with us. We've all lost something. Some more than others. Some have lost a piece of themselves." The bile is rising in her throat. She forces it down. "Some have lost more than that. But that's nothing compared to what we'll lose if we don't stop the Collectors here. You can bet your asses that they won't stop at humans! That means that all of us have to do what it takes. Sacrifices have to be made!"

They're all paying attention now. Shepard takes a breath. "We need someone to go through the thermal vents and override the security. The rest of us will split into two teams and head to the heart of the Collector base. Kasumi and Tali are gone." There's a long pause. She doesn't let herself dwell. She can hate herself later. "And whoever goes into that vent is likely to join them. EDI will help guide you through the process but... It's a heavy risk."

Garrus flexes his mandibles. Grunt snorts. Jack laughs derisively. Mordin takes a deep breath. Shepard isn't sure she likes any of them. They disappoint her as surely as she must disappoint them.

"I volunteer," Jacob says.

Shepard looks at him. Despite being Cerberus he's always been by the book. He wipes the blood from his nose as if that will somehow make him look more capable. Shepard clasps his hand with hers, even as she hears Miranda protesting. Miranda's feelings don't matter. "You're making humanity damn proud, Taylor. At least someone is willing to step up and make the hard sacrifices!" She stands straight and salutes him. "It's been an honor serving with you, soldier." She looks at the rest. "Miranda, Samara, you're with me—Garrus, you're in charge of the second fire team," she pulls the M-6 Carnifex at her side and checks it. "Save your pouting for later and be a team player."

Everyone looks greasy and dirty and hungry. Shepard doesn't wait for him to respond. "Move out!" Garrus can get his head in the game or he can keep being angry. If he dies, he dies. The second fire team is just a diversion. She doesn't need his sad, hateful gaze haunting her throughout the mission.

She tries to block out Miranda's distant voice and whatever comforting thing Jacob is saying. Her head is pounding. Her heart beats too fast. She can't stop thinking of Tali's body, of how she pulled her mask away. It didn't help. Shepard doesn't want to remember her that way. She was burned and so goddamned small.

* * *

Miranda kneels beside Jacob and touches his lifeless face. She tries to brush his eyes closed, but they won't stay shut. Another defeat, another fallen hero. Garrus looks away and sets his sight on the Cerberus crew. Freshly pulled from the liquefying pods, most appear to be in shock.

Chakwas is grateful but Garrus can only hear the words, not listen. He keeps his sniper rifle pointed in the distance. The crew will have to walk back to the _Normandy_. They ask for an escort but Miranda shoots it down.

"We don't know what's left," Miranda rises to her feet. "We're already down four squad members. We all knew the risks when we signed on."

Shepard agrees and sends them on their way, tells them to watch each other's backs. Miranda's fingers tremble despite the steadiness of her voice. Garrus watches the crew filter away into the darkness.

* * *

Miranda falls to one knee, a cry escaping through clenched teeth. It is as Morinth suspected: the 'perfect woman' isn't up to the task. Miranda's barrier fails and the seekers descend, their unnerving buzz intensifying to a frenzied pitch.

Morinth pushes a loping husk out of the way and leaps beside Shepard. Grunt is several steps behind her. The seekers flow around the tank-born krogan, blotting out his thrashing form as they pluck him into the air. Shepard shoots futilely at the roiling mass as Grunt vanishes into the darkness with a howl.

They are at the door. Morinth activates it and the three women spill through, narrowly escaping Grunt's fate. The door closes behind them. Garrus and the second fire team are already there. Mordin tends to a burn on Jack's abdomen. The girl is powerful, but she ought to wear something more than tattoos and leather straps to battle. Garrus and Zaeed appear unscathed, aside from a few scratches.

Garrus gives Shepard a questioning look. "Grunt?"

Shepard responds with a quick shake of her head.

Miranda stoops in exhaustion, hands on her knees, a sheen of dismay on her face. Shepard puts a hand on her shoulder. "Suck it up, Cheerleader. We still have work to do."

Miranda takes another gulp of air, stands up straight. "Right. Let's finish this."

They are bruised, but united. One more leg to go. Shepard gives another speech, trite, but thankfully short. Morinth watches her intently. She thinks she preferred the scars. They were more honest somehow.

* * *

The human proto-Reaper collapses into the abyss with a reverberating mechanical wail. The platforms are littered with the charred remains of Collectors, their acrid stench lingering in the air. Miranda walks with Samara to the edge of the platform and peers down. There is nothing but inky blackness.

"The Void has taken it," Samara intones.

Kelly was right. Miranda can't quite put her finger on it, but something is off with the justicar. She stares into the darkness a moment longer and wonders if anything is staring back. "Let's hope you're right." She turns and walks away.

Shepard has radioed the ground team for a status report. Mordin responds in a shrill voice. They're "holding the line," but just barely. The Collectors are endless. She orders them to fall back to the _Normandy_ , then calls Joker and tells him to prep the engines.

Joker acknowledges, keeps her on the line. "Incoming signal from the Illusive Man, Commander. EDI's patching it through." Miranda takes the call on her omni-tool. The Illusive Man's projection appears before them. He stands straight, respectful, his arms crossed behind his back.

"Shepard. You've done the impossible."

Shepard is kneeling beside the control panel. She shakes her head as she finesses the controls. "Not yet, but I'm about to. I just wish there was a way to preserve the base, use it against the Reapers."

Miranda arches an eyebrow.

"I'm glad you agree, Shepard." The Illusive Man rubs his chin. "I believe there is a way. I'm looking at the schematics EDI uploaded to me. A timed radiation pulse…"

They work out the details, and the Illusive Man ends the call. Miranda hands the override device to Shepard, who affixes it and punches some final commands into the control panel. She stands. "Move out. We have ten minutes to get back to the _Normandy_."

The words are no sooner out of her mouth than the platform rumbles, almost pitching them off their feet. There is a deafening roar. A moment later, the proto-Reaper clambers out of the pit and looms over them, its eyes burning like hellfire, its mouth a furnace.

Miranda looks to Samara, who returns a wry smile. "Perhaps I was mistaken."

* * *

His arm and ribs won't stop throbbing. Joker absently recognizes the physical pain through the numbness that has seized him. The crew was saved from being turned into smoothies, but they didn't make it back to the ship. Kelly, Kenneth, Gabby, Chakwas... all of them and more... just gone. Not just them... Grunt, Tali, Thane, Jacob. Kasumi before that.

Joker stands at the center of the shuttle bay. Most of the coffins are empty. EDI has been quiet. It makes him feel more alone. Things must be real bad if he's missing the damned AI. Chakwas never got off his back, the damned overprotective mother hen. Now...

He exhales shakily, a hand over his eyes before straightening. Shepard hasn't spoken to him. Miranda hasn't spoken to him. Jack hasn't spoken to him. Zaeed hasn't spoken to him. Samara hasn't spoken to him. Neither have Mordin or Garrus. They walk around like husks.

Garrus stands at the side of one of the few coffins that holds a body. His shoulders are hunched. They don't exchange words or glances. Joker limps past him to the elevator, moving towards it as if it were a lifeline. So many coffins, stretching out like the sea. Eighteen in all.

* * *

The inbox reads zero. Shepard stares at it, feet propped up on the desk, arms crossed behind her head. Liara hasn't responded to the news. Liara hasn't responded in weeks. She tells herself to be patient and listens to the cool air blowing through the ducts. She closes her eyes and thinks of Jacob and Tali. Thane is dead. A waste. He would have been useful against the Reapers. The tank-born is dead. He was expendable. He was...unnatural. Miranda was right. They should have never woken him up.

The door to the cabin opens. Shepard expects Morinth. She only turns her head enough to see the gleaming, empty fish tank from the corner of her eye. Garrus hauls her forcibly to her feet before throwing her against the fish tank. Time slows. She is weightless.

She connects hard. There's a crack in the glass. She narrows her eyes and swings. The punch lands and a drizzle of blue blood warms her fist, drips from his nose. They tumble. He grabs her arm when she throws her fist again and slams her face first into the fish tank. It shatters. A fat wave of water crashes over them.

Their footing becomes tenuous but Shepard holds strong. She doesn't notice the geyser of blood spraying from her nose, the split lip. She shoots her arm out and Garrus crashes into the empty glass display case. He's spry.

His footsteps splash through the water as he tackles her to the bed. She head butts him. Her head spins, splits, aches but he stumbles back. She slams her foot into his face and he falls back into the water, his eyes narrowed hatefully on her. She kneels on his chest, withdrawing the M-6 Carnifex from her side. Her paranoia paid off. Dots of blood land on his face like warpaint. "I should blow your fucking brains out."

"You're worthless!" he growls. The words stab into her. The grip on the pistol falters. Her knees are weak. "You're not the Shepard I remember."

Shepard pulls away from him as if he were contaminated. He stands. Broken glass litters the room. Water laps at her feet. She wipes her nose with the back of her hand. "I want you off my ship."

* * *

There's a knock at the door. It's 4:33 in the morning. Miranda's still wet from the shower. She cinches the robe sash around her waist. She hadn't expected company at this hour. Not when the majority of the crew and squad is dead. It is with some apprehension that she goes to the door. Shepard stands on the other side; her face is bruised, her mouth, nose and chin caked with dried blood. She asks to come in.

Miranda nods. Shepard enters and sits in the chair opposite of the desk. Her hand is streaked blue. Turian blood? The Cerberus uniform shirt is dotted in various hues. Miranda sits at her office chair. They haven't really spoken since the attack on the Collector base. Miranda has had Jacob's death to contend with. They won the battle. Logistically they didn't lose too many—not compared with what they salvaged. Still, the mission was catastrophic. They should have done better.

Her barrier failed. It keeps her up at night. She isn't sure who to blame. It varies between the two currently sitting in her office. "Garrus?" Miranda asks.

Shepard clears her throat. "He'll be leaving next time we dock." She sniffles. Miranda pulls open a desk drawer and removes a few packets of medi-gel before moving around the desk. Shepard looks up at her with clear hazel eyes. Miranda takes hold of the bridge of Shepard's nose and twists. There's a crunching sound, a growl from Shepard followed by a stream of swearing. "For fuck's sake, Miranda. A little warning?"

"I thought you liked living on the edge?" Miranda applies the medi-gel and hands her a tissue to wipe her nose, which has begun to bleed again. Shepard dabs at it irritably. "We haven't talked." Shepard plucks several more tissues from the dispenser, lobbing the bloodied tissues into the trash. "How are you?"

Shepard takes a breath. "Doesn't matter. We won." There's a beat. "It wasn't easy."

"We knew it wouldn't be." She crosses her arms lightly. "Jane." Shepard's eyebrows dip before lifting, curious. "Can I call you that?" A moment passes. She nods. Miranda covers her mouth. Her throat is tight. When she speaks, she does so softly. "I'm not sure we made the right decision with the Collector base." Shepard has no visible reaction. "That place is...an abomination." The term isn't one that she uses lightly. It's an emotional word, one that tends toward hyperbole. Emotion is often irrational. Yet, the Collector base with the liquefied remains of millions makes her physically ill. "I'm not sure we should use it."

"I already said we could."

Miranda frowns gently. "You're Commander Shepard. You're in charge. We could still destroy it."

This time Shepard frowns. She stands. She puts her hands on the desk at either side of Miranda. "But we won't." She's close. How strange that Shepard and Garrus would fight. Miranda never expected it'd come to that. "Miranda... I wish I could have done better." Her head dips. Miranda is at a loss. Shepard has never faltered before her. She's unsure if Shepard expects assurances. Shepard gave them to her on the base when she failed, but did she deserve them? Any attempt at comfort Miranda could have given is lost. Shepard lifts her face. "That place disgusts me as much as it does you. But if we can use it to prevent something like this happening again it's worth it. You of all people should know that. Cerberus works for the advancement of humanity at any cost. Whatever data we can mine from that base will keep others safe." Miranda isn't sure. Shepard touches her face. "I'm sorry about Jacob."

Miranda pulls her hand away. She holds onto it for a moment before releasing it. "What happens now?"

Shepard straightens. "Hackett has a job for me. A Dr. Kenson something or another." She rubs her forehead. "It never ends. You'd think stopping the Collectors would be enough to give us some breathing room. I'll fill you in once I have more. It's some Alliance secret op. Hackett wanted me to keep it hush hush but I'm not with them anymore. And don't worry. I haven't forgotten my promise to you. With Oriana."

The words are unexpected. In the midst of everything she'd forgotten. She would have thought that impossible. "All right," Miranda returns to her seat. "Thank you." Shepard nods. "Have you been sleeping?" She only gets a wry smile in return. "Try to rest. If anyone deserves it, it's you." Shepard heads to the door. "Jane." Shepard turns. "Samara. Is she..." Shepard waits. Miranda doesn't know how to articulate her question. "Is everything all right with her?"

"We can dump her off with Garrus."

Miranda shakes her head. She considers asking about Liara but Shepard's left by the time Miranda's decided against it.

* * *

The cabin looks like a war zone. Glass splinters with her every step. The fish tank has been decimated. The floor is wet. The light flickers uncertainly. Shepard sits on the bed, palms resting on her knees. Morinth approaches until she stands before her. Shepard's face is dotted with specks of blue. Her eyes smolder and frost in turn. This is the monster who killed her mother.

Morinth feels a kinship for monsters who pass as normal. The suicide mission was a success, even if it was a bit more literal than hoped. The ones who survive pout, but life is a fragile thing. It can end so easily. Only the worthy are left. Shepard has made poor decisions but she is still one of the most powerful beings in the galaxy. "You didn't come to visit me but I haven't forgotten our conversation." Morinth leans down, placing a knee between Shepard's legs. It feels good to talk with her own voice and not the tones of that haunted, broken shell. "You got us through the suicide mission. Just like I knew you would."

"I didn't get everyone through."

"The ones we lost don't matter." Shepard doesn't like that answer. She was attached to the little quarian. A quarian is worthless outside the engine room, particularly in battle. Shepard grips her arm so violently Morinth wouldn't be surprised if she snaps it in half. Morinth smiles in return. There is something to be said about the way pleasure can mingle with pain. "Be honest, Shepard. Deep down you know it's worth it. Deep down you know you would have sacrificed everyone to stop them," she brings their faces close. "That's what makes you powerful. You'll do anything. I admire that about you."

"We're not the same."

"We're exactly the same." Morinth settles her hands on the back of her neck. "You try to fight it. You try to be 'good'. You chose Miranda for the barrier when I could have done it with ease. You're ashamed of who you are. Miranda makes you ashamed. Liara T'Soni makes you ashamed. Garrus." She trails a finger along her face. "Mother was like that too. She never tried to understand me. I used to try, Shepard. Do you think I chose this life for myself? All I wanted was my freedom. The right to live. For my mother to love me. But she never could. My sisters cut me out of their lives. It hurt. It's been a lonely existence. I know you feel the same." Morinth looks into Shepard's eyes and sees nothing in them. "I know how exhausting it is to always hide who you are. I see who you are. I wouldn't change any part of it."

Shepard brings her hands to either side of her face. Morinth closes her eyes. This is how Shepard ended her mother. A quick snap and she was done. Shepard's fingers are warm, pressing painfully into her face. "You want to kill me."

Morinth laughs softly. It isn't entirely true. "Show me what you did with Mother." She brushes her lips along the curves of Shepard's face. Her pulse throbs beneath the bruises. "I know you want to. I want it more. Don't hold back." Shepard's fingers slip, dip, squeeze her throat. Morinth allows the pressure, her eyes only opening when she starts to go dizzy. Her vision swims.

"No melding."

The words are a command and a threat. Shepard's fingers squeeze until the room starts to go dark. Morinth gives a near imperceptible nod before hot lips grasp her own. There's a certain kinship to be felt with monsters. Shepard is still needed. The Reapers are coming. Her mother often thought her incapable of foresight, only of selfishness. If the Reapers wipe everything out there won't be anyone left to feed on. She can wait until they're gone. Then there can be a battle until only one of them is left standing.

People like them can't stop. She's tried before. She tried for over a century. You can't change who you are. It's a compulsion. All you can do is live with it. Accept it. Find others like you and when it's time, kill them too. Kill them before they kill you.

* * *

The _Normandy_ is on the mend. They limped into port at Illium, where a team of technicians was awaiting them. They began repairs the moment they docked. Cerberus has deep pockets. Illium is not exactly safe haven, but at least it's outside the Terminus Systems. They couldn't risk going back to Omega in their condition.

The ship seems increasingly cavernous and desolate. They are down to four occupants. Garrus wouldn't even look at Shepard as he left. She still isn't quite sure how it came to this. Jack couldn't get off the ship fast enough. _Thanks for the laughs, Shepard. Hope you and the cheerleader are happy together._

Only wanting to collect his payment, Zaeed said something about Jessie getting restless, that it was time to move on to the next contract. Miranda tried to talk Mordin into staying on, but he also refused. _Collectors defeated. Getting old. Much to do_.

Fine. She doesn't need them. EDI is unshackled and can run the ship pretty much by herself. At least she has Miranda and Morinth. And Joker. Joker would never leave the _Normandy_ by choice.

Shepard steps into the comm room and tells EDI to activate the QEC. That at least still works, though parts of the ceiling have collapsed. She pushes debris aside. The lights dim and the holo-projector hums to life.

The Illusive Man smiles.

His eyes are light in the dark. Even now they meet via hologram; even now he doesn't trust her. Shepard doesn't blame him. She understands him now. The Illusive Man is cynical but brilliant. Determined. He has humanity's best interest at heart. He'll do whatever it takes.

"You have exceeded my expectations, Shepard." He exhales smoke slowly, his gaze fixed on her. "Miranda had reservations." Shepard stops herself from flinching. "She tells me you have, too. I want you to forget those reservations. We brought you back for a reason. You stopped the Collectors. Better yet, you've secured their base." He pushes to his feet. The two of them look at the holographic schematic of the base. "We both know the data we glean here will be invaluable."

"Miranda doesn't like it."

He looks at her. "What do you think?"

Shepard considers. "I think she's sentimental." His lips pull in a smirk. She nearly mirrors it. Emotional is the last thing she would have thought Miranda was. Miranda is cold and calculating but there's more to her than that. How things change. "She wants to do the right thing. So do I. Our methods are different."

The Illusive Man drops the cigarette in an ashtray. He picks up a lowball glass, his forehead knitting thoughtfully. He walks to her. Shepard makes out the impeccable detail of his suit. The hologram is so clear she can practically count the threads of his crisp shirt. "Will she be a problem?" Shepard gently arches her eyebrow. "Do you think she's lost sight of our mission?"

"No." Shepard doesn't doubt that Miranda's goals are her goals. Help humanity. Stop the Reapers. "She believes she may have tracked down Oriana." The Illusive Man pauses as he brings the glass to his lips. He lowers it and looks at her. Shepard wonders if Miranda mentioned it to him. The two of them never spend time talking about the Illusive Man. They've only recently begun to navigate one another. "I've asked Joker to head to Thessia once we're ready. If we move quickly enough we might be able to get her back."

The Illusive Man returns to his seat. He grazes a thumb along his forehead before looking back at her. "Oriana isn't a priority." Shepard waits. "Hackett has asked you for a favor."

"I'm not working with the Alliance anymore."

"No, but you are working for me. Cerberus has been watching Dr. Kenson closely for several years now. We lost sight of her months ago."

"Guess you weren't watching _too_ closely."

He indulges her gibe with a faint smile. "Her work may be vitally important to our interests." He takes a drink from the glass. "Oriana can wait. Kenson can't. Furthermore, your Alliance ties could prove useful to us. It would be best if you didn't alienate them."

Shepard frowns. She isn't the lapdog of the Alliance. But she isn't the Illusive Man's bitch either. She works _with_ him, not for him. She crosses her arms. "Negative. Miranda has been more than patient. Frankly, if I'd helped her to begin with it wouldn't be an issue now. We'll go to Thessia, get Oriana back and then I can head to whatever backwards batarian planet Kenson is on."

The Illusive Man waits. "I want you to reconsider. But I won't force you. You've proved to all of us that you know what you're doing." He crosses a leg over the other. The burning orb behind him paints the room blood red. "There is one more thing I'd like to speak to you about before we part ways. It'd be more accurate to call it an offer- a show of my good faith, if you're willing to accept it."

"I'm listening."


	17. Spare Parts

The shooting is all over the news for a few days, though the details are kept vague. No names are released. A "human female" has gone missing. There's a physical description but no name. A "suspect" is wanted for questioning. No description. The media is being strangely circumspect. Henry Lawson must have spent a fortune to keep Oriana's name out of the news. Asari officials, adept at covering their blue asses, want nothing more than to avoid a galactic scandal. Still, Hope knows they will be looking tirelessly for Oriana, and for 'Shepard,' even if both their names are being withheld from the public.

Grace is unused to calling attention to herself. She paces the small safe house like a caged rat. Oriana watches her resentfully from the couch. Hope leans against the wall and weighs her options. Gardner has been silent. She fears the worst. The last message he sent indicated they were about to go through the Omega-4 relay.

A week has passed. The girl is clever so they take turns watching her. Hope hasn't spoken to Grace. There's hardly been a moment of privacy between them. Grace has become more sullen. She didn't want to keep the girl. She pities her. _We're keeping her safe from Henry Lawson. Trust me when I say he's as vicious as they get._

Oriana swears softly. Grace stops pacing. The girl's huddled over the coffee table with a small toolkit. Grace initially commented that it looked like a torture kit. Seeing the girl pale had put a smile on Hope's face. A puff of smoke trails from the fried hologram device. "Are you trying to burn the place down?" Hope asks.

Oriana scowls without looking up. "Trying."

Grace smiles faintly. "I like her," she tells Hope. Of course she does. Grace doesn't wait for a response. She sits next to Oriana, arms draped over her legs, watching her work. Oriana stiffens noticeably but pretends she hasn't noticed her. A fan swirls lazily overhead. Oriana purses her lips thoughtfully as the small pen-knife type tool presses against a hub of what looks like wet metal. "Are you sure about that?" Grace asks.

Oriana's scowl deepens but she retracts the tool. "I don't even know why I'm doing this," she mutters. Hope watches them, heads close, looking at the object with inscrutable thought. Oriana has gone from terrified to moody. Hope thought it best to reveal Miranda's dossier – carefully redacted – to discredit Henry Lawson and prove him a liar. The matter was simple enough. Oriana doesn't trust them fully. She's smart not to, but now she's conflicted about her older sister.

 _I'm surrounded by clones_ , Hope thinks irritably. Worse yet, they're pigheaded and have no inkling about what they really are. _Who they are...?_ Hope sits at Oriana's left. "Fix it," Hope tells her sharply.

Grace leans forward to look at her. "Lay off." Hope glares. Grace is quick to switch sides. Oriana doesn't face either woman, looking like a miserable child trapped between feuding parents. "Look," she says calmly, "you fix this and you and ... Lilah," she says through gritted teeth, "can use it to get off Thessia. The news reports don't say anything about her. I don't think they're looking for her, but they know you're missing. Your father is looking." Hope keeps herself from nodding as Grace goes through their talking points. "I'll take a separate route and rendezvous with you both later."

Oriana wrings her hands. She's identical to Miranda except that she actually uses expressions. Being around her is irritating. "Will my father come after you?" Oriana asks. Grace shrugs. Hope half expects her to put sunglasses on. Oriana takes a breath. "I'm so confused. I thought I knew what my life was. I thought it was one thing and then six months ago I found it was something else. That everything I knew was a lie. And now I'm being told that the truth was just another lie." She sighs tiredly. "All I wanted was to go to school and get a boyfriend." Hope rolls her eyes. Grace shoots daggers at her. Oriana looks at Grace. "Why did you have a disguise? If you're Commander Shepard—and you're helping my sister... why did you have a disguise?"

Hope has ten excuses on the tip of her tongue but Grace is flummoxed. Conflict makes her look young. Her lips part but no words come out. There is nothing she can say that isn't a lie. And still—"I didn't want to be recognized," Grace says. The truth hadn't occurred to Hope. She's left feeling stupid. There's something to be admired about honesty—even if there's no cleverness in it.

Oriana says nothing but it's clear the answer doesn't satisfy. Grace looks at Oriana and then briefly at the ceiling. Hope wonders if she's praying. What do clones pray to? False idols? The Reapers? Science? Miranda and Henry Lawson? "I could tell you I'm dodging an evil twin but you're brighter than that." Hope laughs weakly. Oriana looks at Grace skeptically. "I don't know what the truth is. I know what it's like to be lied to. I don't like it anymore than you do." Hope's face warms. She tries to catch Grace's eyes, tries to get her to stop talking but she's fixated on Oriana. "You've been lied to enough. Don't ask me again, all right?"

"Fine," Oriana grumbles. She picks up the tool again, turning her attention to the hologram device. "Are you two dating?" Oriana asks. "You don't have to keep hiding it. It's low on my list of priorities after kidnapping."

"We didn't kidnap you. We rescued you," Hope says with a smirk. "So be a good girl, shut your mouth and don't ask questions." Oriana had to prattle on with her sob story, stirring doubt in Grace. Hope doesn't look at her partner. Odd how a truth withheld feels so much like a lie. It's thick as stone, keeping a wall between them. The weight is new, the height of the lie paramount—it will fall like a tower and end everything if she isn't mindful.

* * *

X3 is as close to achieving perfection as one can get. She is dedicated, awkward, usually monosyllabic. Cerberus agents avoid X3 as steadily as they flock to Annalise. They want autographs, tributes of some friendship that they can tell their families and friends about. Annalise smiles but ignores them. They slack off. They're not dedicated to Cerberus.

X3 practices late into the night. Her biotics are...different. The palm cannon tears through shields. The sword Three wields is good for taking off heads. The barrier she creates is a marvel. Annalise can't get through it, even with an M-98 Widow.

She wills herself not to think of the throbbing pain in her arms. The flesh was previously bruised, red and swollen. The swelling has subsided but pain still hums inside of her. There is always a hum, like a song at the back of her mind. Maybe it's a lullaby, something she used to sing to him. Whatever it is, it's always out of reach.

She goes to the mat room late in the night. Thoughts and scratches along her mind keep her awake. X3 is always there, no matter the hour. The woman is incredibly agile. She's an acrobat. Annalise smiles thinking that they would have paid a fortune for a stuntwoman like her on the movie sets she used to work on. Her face would have given them pause. Her face is a patchwork of scars. There's someone X3 reminds Annalise of, a resemblance there she can't put her finger on. Annalise looks at her longer than she should, as if trying to decipher a riddle. "Do you ever sleep, Three?"

The woman finishes her flip and sticks the landing. She always sticks the landing. She always stands too close, as if she never learned the concept of personal space. "You're up." X3 always states the obvious. Her face is lightly glazed with sweat. She doesn't have a smell. Humans typically have a stench. "You're slower than you should be. You could use the practice."

 _Blunt as always, Three_. It's jarring to not have her ass kissed. X3 turns her back to her and returns to where she was. Annalise ties her hair up and moves to the middle of the mat where X3 stands. "Anyone ever tell you you're rude?" X3's eyes narrow thoughtfully. There's her answer. "You know I don't stand a chance against you in a sparring match."

"Yes."

Sigh. She smiles and lunges forward taking a swing with her left fist, missing, attempting an uppercut with her right. If she connects, she'll break her jaw. She doesn't connect. She's laughably off the mark. She waits for some cocky remark from X3 but doesn't get it. X3 grabs her arm but Annalise flips forward, a hand on X3's shoulder. A mistake- X3 rolls with her, slamming her onto the mat. There is no gleam of accomplishment in X3's curious eyes as she pins her arms over her head. X3 could snap her in half if she wanted to. Annalise laughs. "We're both disappointed."

"Take this seriously."

"I do." On that she won't be questioned. She's relatively new to Cerberus but she has striven to do her best, to out-practice the others. But she won't compare to X3. Kai Leng skulks around the facilities looking dismissively at everyone, particularly X3, but that doesn't demean the agent. "I can't beat you. No one can beat you." Another small frown touches her features. "Why are you here?" The frown deepens. "Everyone here is angry or hateful or sad."

"Which one are you? Angry or hateful or sad."

Annalise smiles. "Sad." Now. Sometimes she's all of them at the same time.

X3 remains straddling her. She releases her wrists and looks around the room as if searching for answers, words, anything. "Oh." There's another long pause. "Sorry."

* * *

 _To: ML [ ML ]_

 _From: Samantha Traynor [ straynor ]_

 _Miranda,_

 _I see I've thawed you enough for us to be on a first name basis. Another battle won! Glad to know my instincts were good. It's five in the bloody morning and I've got to run to PT but I must admit, you've got me a bit worried. Congratulations, I thought we would limit ourselves to trolling one another. Is everything all right? I'll cross my fingers and hope I hear back. I've been enjoying our banter._

 _—Samantha_

 _You cannot play chess if you are kindhearted._

Miranda rests an elbow on the desk, peering at the laptop monitor. The email is relatively mundane, especially compared to the recent battle against the Collectors and the Cerberus data she continues to sift through. Samantha Traynor won't budge on revealing any details about Horizon. At this point it no longer matters. Gardner has been caught. The clone has been sighted on Thessia, possibly with Oriana. There's no need to continue the line of communication. And yet, it is so unlike what she is accustomed to.

She's never had anyone she could just talk to. Niket would be the closest thing and there's been no word from him. Jacob is gone. Death has never affected her. She's heard how others whisper about her, how unfeeling she is. She's never had anything to dispute their claims with until now. She can't get Jacob's sightless eyes out of her mind.

Now she has the curious Samantha Traynor to contend with. To correspond with her would push matters past the point of work. The cursor hovers over the 'reply' button. There remains work to do. Shepard promised they'd go to Thessia, but they're still docked in Illium. Miranda tells herself the vast number of repairs the Normandy requires is the reason they haven't gone yet.

 _{ Miranda. The Illusive Man would like to talk to you in the comm room. }_

EDI. Miranda isn't used to having the AI pass along messages. The fact that she is unshackled worries her. Shepard is indifferent. EDI's more than enough to replace the crew, she said. Is Shepard as unaffected as she appears? She doesn't talk about Liara. Tali and Garrus were the only ones she placed some semblance of trust in and they're gone. They were on the ship to bolster Shepard's confidence in the mission, in the crew. Shepard seems more dedicated than ever. Maybe the aliens are no longer necessary. But Garrus is a good soldier. Miranda tried to talk to him as he departed but he wanted no part of it. How will it affect matters later?

She looks at the laptop and stands without responding. "Thank you, EDI." She squares her shoulders and makes her way to the comm room. Wires dangle like intestines, the ceiling convexed like a bloated gut. There's a lot of work to do. Fortunately the FTL and stealth drive still work. The ship isn't pretty but provided no Collectors attack, they should be all right until the repairs are made.

The Illusive Man hasn't asked to speak to her in some time. The last few occasions when he deigned to speak to her he chastised her and dismissed her concerns. Miranda isn't sure whether he was right to. The thought sends guilt burrowing her into her. The peculiar sensation has been growing. First there's Shepard. She didn't trust her and yet she got them through- as best as she could. Was she right to doubt her?

But it's more than Shepard. She couldn't maintain the barrier at the Collector base and Grunt died because of it. Should she have been able to maintain the barrier? _Yes._ Shepard trusted her. Her father got her the best genetic tailoring money can buy. Her biotics are formidable. So why couldn't she hold it together long enough...? She was made to be perfect and yet she failed. She's the only one who can take responsibility for the mistake. When they made it past that door she sank to one knee, barely able to breathe. She scanned the room for enemies...did she imagine Samara smiling...?

If only that were the last of the screwups. The crew is dead. She shot down the suggestion for an escort. Was that her failure or Shepard's? The decision was sound, logical. It was the right decision, but the cost... Most worrisome is the matter of Oriana. She joined Cerberus so they could keep her safe. She wasn't kept safe. The Illusive Man failed her. Cerberus failed her. And she failed Oriana. The one thing she swore never to do. Now Oriana's in danger. The clone has possibly taken her, but for what purpose? It should be easier to track the clone than her father. Her face will ensure that. Miranda isn't sure whether it's a small mercy or not.

By the time she gets to the communications room she's cold with doubt. Her confidence is dwindling dangerously. She was once the Illusive Man's most trusted operative, above 'Rasa' and Kai Leng. Now he has Shepard. Miranda brought Shepard back. Has she outlived her usefulness to him? The comm room is gutted, but most of the debris has been cleared. She stands straight as the room dims to black.

An instant later he's there. She sees his eyes first, spheres of light, cold and clinical, emotionless. Is this what people see when they look at her? She holds her tongue and waits for him to speak. Anything spoken here could give away a hand she didn't know she had.

"Congratulations, Miranda. When I charged you with heading the Lazarus Project I only hoped we could bring Shepard back. We face dark times and powerful enemies. We needed the best and thanks to you, we got the best. Our recent victory would not be possible if not for your work."

She isn't sure that's true. His steps clack on the floor as he approaches. It seems strange that she has placed her life and Oriana's in his hands and yet she knows nothing about him. How unlike her. How irresponsible. He's obsessed with human dominance to the exclusion of everything else. "You found the funding to make it possible, sir." He smiles. "I'm sure you haven't summoned me here for congratulations."

"To the point as always." He clasps his hands and looks down at her. "If I know you, you're blaming yourself for the mistakes and the losses of the suicide mission. You and Shepard had a troubled beginning. For the good of the mission you overcame that. By now you must know that we must all make sacrifices to stop the Reapers." Miranda's throat tightens. She forces herself to not move a muscle. "Shepard is... surprisingly dedicated to you. Almost as dedicated as she is to Cerberus. She's told you of Dr. Kenson?"

"Yes, sir." She knows what he wants. She waits for him to say it.

"I need you to tell Shepard that Oriana can wait."

Cold anger washes over Miranda, despite how she expected the words. She didn't bother him with the Oriana sighting because she knew it would always fall to the back burner. Shepard is back. She isn't irreplaceable anymore. Cerberus matters, humanity matters, Oriana doesn't. She doesn't. Seconds pass before she trusts herself to speak. "With all due respect, sir, I disagree." His eyes flick away from her and she doesn't know if he's dismissing her or finding something worthier to consider. "We only have a limited window to get her back and this delay in Illium has made that window increasingly small." She's surprised that her words nearly shake. "I joined Cerberus so you could keep her safe. You haven't." His eyes reveal nothing. "We got through the suicide mission...!" He asked her to be patient. She's been patient.

"And still we have the Reapers to contend with," he tells her calmly. Miranda locks her jaw, trying to contain another outburst. "Don't put your personal feelings ahead of what's good for the galaxy. You have been walking a fine line. Despite that you're still one of my most trusted agents. That is, assuming you can still do your job."

"And if I don't, sir?"

His smile is cold. He turns his back to her. "Don't disappoint me, Miranda. Your father's reach is nothing compared to mine."

He walks away into the darkness, his figure eventually fizzling out. Miranda stands in the abandoned communications room, not able to immediately discern why the room is flooded blue, why every inch of her body tingles.

* * *

X3 picks herself up from the mat. Leng waits with a smirk. She doesn't yet have the skill to wipe it from his face. He's the only person in the Phoenix facility capable of teaching her anything new, anything useful. She has questions. Leng is disdainful and derisive, unlikely to give satisfying answers.

Still, she has questions.

Standing, she meets Leng's gaze flatly. "What am I?"

Leng's smirk turns to a scowl. "We went over this on day one. Have you forgotten?"

"No. I am a genetic duplicate of Jane Shepard. I am called X3." She pauses. "Am I... more?"

"More? What are you talking about? Did that last throw soften your skull?"

"No." She furrows her brow, trying to summon the words. "I know that I was created in the image of another, fashioned from... parts. I was not born. I was not raised. I was programmed to fight and kill. I am called X3, but that is a designation without meaning. I do not—"

"Oh, I get it," he smiles wolfishly. "You want to know if you're a real girl? A person? Is that what's bothering you?" He strides forward and places a hand on her shoulder. "Let me remove that burden. The answer is no. You're property. You belong to Cerberus."

She used to think so. She steps back, watching his hand slip away. "I don't think that is right. I am not property."

"Is that so?" he scoffs. "We made you. You are what we say you are."

She frowns. "Jane Shepard was not made. She is not property. I am the same as her."

"You're not the same!" He shakes his head, scowl deepening. "I don't have time for your existential crisis, X3. You exist to serve Cerberus. That's all you need to know. Just do what you're told." He turns and walks away. "Hit the showers and get some shuteye. You and the blonde have a mission tomorrow."

She leaves, unsure what to name the feeling in her gut. Has she hurt her standing with Leng? Will he think her soft and indecisive? Will he question her commitment? Will she be punished in some way? The walk to the locker room is brief. It's late and no one else is there. Leaving a trail of sweat-soaked clothes on the floor, she makes her way into the showers. She shudders as ice cold water washes over her body. Leng says warm water is for weaklings. Only the kitchen gets hot water.

 _You exist to serve Cerberus_. And Cerberus serves mankind. It's what they tell recruits to get them to sign on the dotted line. She isn't sure if the dotted line is a literal thing; she was never given anything to sign. She was 'born' into fealty. She doesn't always understand how Cerberus is serving mankind, but it doesn't matter. The Illusive Man decides what's good for humanity. She follows orders.

Each day she trains. Each day she grows stronger. The Phantom implants gave her a head start. She awoke with the ability to fight and kill, but there is always more. The trainers don't speak of X8 in front of her, but sometimes she lurks nearby. She overhears them gossiping about her counterpart. They use words like "perfect," and "gifted." She knows they intend to capture X8 and make her the exemplar of the Phantom program. She's a place-holder, a stand-in for another clone. What will become of her if X8 is captured? Will she be discarded? Thrown into the burn pit with all the other trash? Will her family forsake her? X8 is like her, but she is not family. She thinks she might hate her.

X8 has a name. _Grace_. It has meaning. It is not merely an alphanumeric sequence. Does it make her a person? Is the mere quality of having a name all that is required for personhood? If X3 named herself, would Leng finally agree that she is something more than property? Doubtful. More likely he would laugh at her in that contemptuous way of his, then tell her a thing cannot name itself.

 _Grace_ might be perfect, but X3 holds to something more. What makes her different also makes her special. She is called X3 because that is where her brain, spine, and 57% of her tissue came from. The medical facts were read to her from a datapad during one of her checkups. Other parts came from other clones, a fact she is reminded of every time she catches her reflection. Her eyes are different colors. She doesn't know how that is possible, but she knows the scars are testaments of what was required for her to live. The fact that she exists at all is proof that she is strong. That must count for something. Surely, it makes her something more than one golden clone who happened to grow flawlessly in a pod. X8 is the accident of nature, not she.

She towels herself dry, dresses, then heads back to the dormitory. She wonders about the mission Leng mentioned. It's dark, and the other recruits will have bunked down. It has been a long day, and she is tired. Her cot is next to Annalise's. Sometimes Annalise waits up for her. X3 hopes she is awake. She likes the sound of her voice, though she can't explain why.

* * *

It's night. The lights of Thessia brighten and fade like a pulse in the distance. Grace looks away from the window. A figure stands silhouetted at the bedroom door, the light behind her cutting out a shadow. Hope casts a backwards glance before entering, closing the door behind her.

Hope joins her at the window seat. It's the first they've been alone since Oriana joined them. Oriana's concerns have been allayed as best as they can be. The evidence has been presented. She must know now that Henry Lawson only wanted her for his own nefarious means. For a legacy. He only pretended to be benevolent.

Now they go on the run again. Grace and Hope must separate. If she hadn't spitefully brought them to Thessia it might have been avoided. If Hope, Rasa, Lilah, Sasha, whoever didn't constantly lie and kill first, question later, they might have avoided it. Still, 'Hope' has not provided real answers for interfering in the matter with the girl. There's no real plan other than to get her off Thessia and return her to Illium. Miranda Lawson, dreaded terrorist, is allegedly intent on keeping her safe. Grace isn't sure why Hope told Oriana that either; she can't decipher Hope's angle. To take her for safekeeping is... unlike her. "She got it working," Hope announces simply, referring to the holo-mask.

"I thought she might." Grace adjusts on the seat, drawing her legs to her. Hope slides closer. "I'm not sure about this plan." Hope watches her steadily. It's different than before when she simply cut her off midsentence. The shift grows but Grace isn't sure that she or Hope know how to feel about it. "It's risky. If Henry Lawson's men or Commander Shepard and Miranda catch up with you then..."

"Then what...?" she leans forward, her voice low and enticing.

Inches separate them. "Then ..." She bows her head and thinks. Hope is a master at muddling her thoughts. "I don't understand why you're doing this. Miranda Lawson is a terrorist. Kai Leng works for Cerberus. If they're after that girl and they find you..."

Hope's eyes narrow on her. "Does it matter if they find me?" Grace wonders if she has the right to find the question offensive. Things would be easier if she didn't care. Nothing should stop her from leaving Hope behind. "We told the girl we're trying to keep her safe from her father. You've told her that."

"It's what we decided on."

"It's the truth."

"Is it?"

Hope leans back into the wall, her eyes clouded. She crosses her arm gingerly. "Miranda Lawson is a bitch. She's always had an attitude. She thinks she's better than everyone. Never much liked her."

"I hadn't noticed."

She laughs mirthlessly. "I've never known what it is to be cared for." Her face reveals nothing save for a twitch of her jaw. The rise and fall of her chest stops. Grace has only glimpsed her like this when she's been blind with rage and grief. She couldn't see then. She studies her now when she can see. Hope won't look at her. "That girl is the only thing Miranda Lawson cares about. It seems a bit petty to feed her to the wolves. That's all." She looks at Grace and smirks. "Moving enough for you?"

"Is it true?" She isn't surprised when Hope doesn't respond. Grace moves over the window seat, crawling over her. Hope flicks her eyes to her. "I care about you," she tells her. The words strike her as true though she has doubted it in the past months. Hope averts her gaze, face pensive. Grace takes her hand. "I hate how things have been between us."

Hope parts her lips but whatever she's ready to say is cut off by Oriana, calling from the living room, insistent on going. Hope stills but Grace detects the slight pressure of her hand. "I've been wanting to speak to you." There's a hesitation there that Grace has never seen before. "I've needed time alone with you to discuss... everything." She tsks. "Oriana threw a wrench in the plans," she mutters.

Grace lifts Hope's chin with the tip of her finger. "Everything...?"

"Everything." She's skittish. "I can't now. After the girl is gone." She's sincere.

She won't press her. Hope is quick to clam up when prodded. A spiteful response. Maybe a defensive one. "I'll meet you at the space port. Promise me you'll be careful."

Hope smiles ruefully. Grace palms her face and kisses her softly. In the dark room, with their separation impending, Hope returns it in kind.

* * *

Shepard rests her elbows on the kitchen island, hands buried in her hair. Gardner won't stand in the space ever again. No one will take his shitty meals into battle, sitting like bricks in their stomach. The ship is haunted. It's quiet. There are shadows everywhere. There are whispers. Once the _Normandy_ gets up and running again it should stop.

The med-bay has been cleared out. Chakwas had framed pictures of Shepard and Joker on her desk. Shepard never noticed. The Serrice Ice Brandy Shepard forgot to give her was ingested after the suicide mission but Shepard can't swallow the choking guilt. The alcohol wasn't enough to make her forget. All she wanted was a moment of peace from the throbbing ache. She should be happy. She won. Garrus is gone. Garrus who acts like Tali's death hasn't affected her.

 _{ Are you all right, Commander? }_

Shepard rubs her eyes. The damned AI has been a chatty thing since she was unshackled. "Just peachy, EDI."

 _{ Peachy? }_

"Just shut up." There is little force in her voice, the words barely audible. She recognizes the approach of deliberate footsteps. Miranda arrives soon after. She smiles thinly at Shepard before turning her back to her, opening one of the cupboards and taking out a porcelain tea cup and saucer. Shepard averts her eyes. Miranda once bragged about her appearance being designed to give her an edge. She understands now how it might work. It's been months and still no word from Liara. The thought triggers a memory of Morinth's tongue, hot along her skin. Shepard expected to be more disappointed in herself but complacency has taken its stead. "We're out of Earl Grey," she tells Miranda.

"I didn't know you drank it."

"You do." Shepard didn't miss how Miranda took care to stash it behind the 'less desirable' teas. It struck her as funny, how the perfect human stooped to something so... childish. They're out now and Shepard absurdly wishes they weren't. Gardner was killed and then they hit the Collectors. No time to restock. Shepard thinks of his body, hard and frozen beneath pre-packaged meats. Miranda put him on ice before he was thrown out the air lock. Shepard smiles wryly but doesn't share the thought. "What's on your mind?"

"What makes you think something is?"

"You're looking for tea." The woman has very few tells. Shepard can't think of any other outside of fetching tea when she's argued with her or Jack. When Oriana was on her mind. "Want to tell me what it is? I'll go twenty-questions on you if I have to. Is it bigger than a Collector?"

Miranda laughs softly. She pulls out a box of black tea and turns. "As a matter of fact." Her face sobers. Shepard's on the alert. She looks at the ceiling and the glow of the video feed. EDI. With a nod she indicates that Shepard should follow her to her office. Shepard grabs a water bottle and goes after her, uncapping it as she walks. They move past the desk and office chair to the couch along the wall. "I've thought about your matter with Dr. Kenson. I think it would be best if you dealt with it first."

Shepard is apprehensive. They've stalled too long on Illium. Anytime the _Normandy_ looks as if it's ready to take off, another glaring problem presents itself. Oriana matters more to Miranda than anything else. She wouldn't ask Shepard to hold off unless she was pushed. "Let me guess? Illusive Man's orders?"

"Yes," Miranda says simply. She looks to the side as if searching for tea but realizes she didn't bring any. She speaks softly. "I don't always agree with his decisions but Cerberus matters. Our mission matters. I've upheld my end of the bargain. Oriana was meant to be kept safe." She takes a breath. "The Illusive Man sees value in...finding this Dr. Kenson. I've done some research on her. She's worked on ambitious projects. By all accounts, she's brilliant. If she could help in the war against the Reapers I think it's important you do it."

Does Miranda believe any of what she's saying? She's professional. So professional. Would she bury everything that matters to her for the greater good? Shepard knows everything must be sacrificed in war to win. It should reassure her that Miranda agrees. Liara is gone. Tali is gone. Garrus is gone. Others that don't matter. Miranda is the only one left who matters. The remaining lives of the galaxy aren't arbitrary but they somehow aren't real. They're numbers. "What about Oriana?" She tries to get her thoughts together. "I'm shit at promises. I'd like to keep this one."

"I appreciate it but I think we both know this is what's right." She takes a deep breath. "I'm not going to give up on my sister. I haven't been given leave to pursue this—but I can't sit on this, Jane. I'll go after her on my own, consequences be damned. I'll track Oriana down while you see to Kenson. Cerberus was supposed to keep Oriana safe. Her safety was Cerberus' payment to me in exchange for my... talents. Later on she was there to keep me in line—until I brought you back. Now that you are, she's not a priority. She's just one person. She's everything to me. Irrelevant to Cerberus."

Shepard's mouth is dry. "That's...cynical." If not accurate. Shepard can't say that she'd do differently than the Illusive Man. Still, she'd prefer for her existence to not screw Miranda out of the reason for hers.

"I'm pragmatic. Not cynical." She stands. "If I know my father, he'll be sending everything he has after her. I can't let them get to her again. Who knows how he's hurt her. How he'll continue to hurt her." There's something more she isn't saying, something more troubling still but she hangs on to it.

"You're not telling me something." Shepard gets to her feet. Miranda is silent. "I'll go with you."

"You can't," Miranda says sharply. She closes her eyes momentarily before touching her forehead. "Thank you, Jane. But it might be best if I handle this on my own after all." Are the words a judgment? She's certain now that Miranda is holding back. "The Illusive Man won't be happy. I believe he wanted me to be backup for this mission of yours. Just in case. I think you'll be fine on your own."

"Doesn't look like anyone's giving me much choice about it."

Miranda smiles wryly. "We never get more than two or three." She walks to her desk and pulls a drawer open, withdrawing her holster belt and pistol. "I'll need you to buy me time if he asks. I'll contact you as soon as I... well, as soon as the matter has been resolved. I know it's a lot to ask."

Shepard frowns at the desk. Isn't she Commander Shepard? These days she's more a puppet. Her fingers trail along the surface of the desk. She isn't in the mood for more goodbyes. "It's nothing to ask. And I'll do you one better."

* * *

Oriana prefers Shepard. Shepard was quick with smiles and reassurances. She killed Enyala but seemed very sorry about it. Her tread was steady and sure. Lilah stalks. She is not Enyala but she has the same flint in her eyes. Thessia is cold at night but it's the only time Lilah lets them leave whatever box-like room they've occupied. Lilah doesn't talk. She seems to look past her. When she looks at her, the gaze is knowing, withering.

Oriana is yanked from her thoughts when Lilah grasps her arm, pulling her like broken luggage when she doesn't move quickly enough. Oriana isn't used to being on the run. She doesn't like it. She considers returning to Henry Lawson. He is a firm and guarded man but friendly enough, in a kind of creepy I'll-give-you-candy-if-you-get-into-my-car kind of way. Maybe Lilah's lying. She seems like a jerk. She _is_ a jerk. Why should she trust the word of strangers over the man who claims to be her true father?

 _Maybe because he sort of kidnapped you?_

No. Shepard and Lilah kidnapped her. _Rescued you._ Whatever. A search on the extranet produced nothing for Lilah. The lack of last name didn't help things. The woman is slippery as an eel. She should let it go. _Are you kidding me?_ Shepard stopped the geth years ago. Her word must mean something.

Lilah tells her to hurry. Oriana quickens her step, heart jumping when she catches her asari 'reflection' on restaurant glass windows and puddles of rainwater. The disguise is weird. Oriana wonders whether Lilah is a racist or doesn't like anyone, period. _The second, definitely._

She should have stayed with Shepard. She should have spoken to her in private and asked her. It's stupid really. She doesn't know her from anyone. As far as she knows, Shepard could be wearing a hologram of her own. How much trust should she give to a gut feeling? She had a good feeling about her traitor parents, too. Then it turned out they were terrorists. _Lilah and Shepard say they aren't. That's why you're going back to them, remember? Maybe they're not dead. Please let them not be dead._ Her thoughts are all over the place.

"How long until Shepard meets us," she asks. She collides with two giggling asari, apologizes and keeps moving. Lilah doesn't answer. "How long—" she starts again.

"If she isn't arrested or killed, I wager not long."

"They won't kill her, will they?" Enough time passes that she knows the conversation has ended whether she wants it to or not. She can't figure the two out. Sometimes Shepard and Lilah look to tolerate each other. Most often they disagree. It's nothing they say. It's the way they look at each other (or won't) when one happens to be speaking. Oriana likes to think she's good at reading body language. Lilah seems even moodier away from Shepard.

"Worry about yourself," Lilah tells her. She stops abruptly, a frown touching her usually flat expression. Oriana doesn't have time to ask what the matter is, Lilah grabs her arm and pulls her into an alleyway. There are two asari making out and feeling each other up in the distance. God. What if Henry or Lilah or Miranda kill her and she dies a virgin? How embarrassing. Oriana tries to ignore the passionate asari.

Lilah leans into the wall and fishes something out of the small bag strapped to her belt. A communication device about the size of a can. She looks at it, furrows her brow, then slips it back into her bag. "Great," Oriana says, grimly. "Good news?"

"No," she says with a frown. "No news at all."

* * *

Shepard has an emotional side. A dangerous trait to have in a monster. One that Morinth thought Liara T'Soni shattered when she left the _Normandy_ never to return again. Morinth knows Liara wants nothing to do with Shepard because she hasn't contacted her. She knows Liara hasn't contacted her because Shepard wouldn't fuck her with as much vigor, or at all, if she had. She hasn't been able to meld minds with her. The process grows trickier every instance. Morinth gets hungry but she exhibits control. She smiles wryly thinking that her mother would be proud.

What secrets did Liara see in Shepard's mind? Was it as petty as the lovers she's taken? Or could she get in at all? Shepard's mind must be in pieces. It must be sharp and painful to navigate those waters. Something happened to make Liara go. Shepard's sentimental side is transient. If not Garrus, then Tali. If not Samara, her. If not Liara then Miranda. Shepard's so focused on wanting to protect others, not knowing that she values herself most of all. An admirable quality. What a terrible world that shames those who want to enjoy living, who have an ounce of self-preservation.

Now she's on a shuttle with Miranda Lawson, who has been fidgeting with the QEC device for some minutes. Miranda doesn't like her. The feeling is mutual. Morinth knows her mother would have approved of the woman, cold and calculating, incapable of having any fun, taking any joy or pleasure. She's beginning to break away from her love of regulation, at least, off on some noble, sanctimonious mission to rescue her sister.

 _Shepard instructed her as she dressed. "I need you to back her up. Do what you want on your down time if you get any. Have fun. But Miranda and Oriana's safety are your top priority."_

 _Morinth laughed. "You're getting soft, Shepard."_

 _"If anything happens to them, I'm coming after you."_

 _"You'd never catch me."_

In the end Morinth agreed to the task. Masquerading as her mother on Thessia could be fun. She has memorized the Code. Hacking her mother's omni-tool took some time, but she managed it, and now she has the various security clearances of a justicar. She can pass any superficial inquiry, not that anyone would dare question her. So many stuffshirt asari, so many matriarchs brimming with power and she, with the perfect disguise to suck them dry like a juicebox. She smiles faintly thinking of it. She doesn't miss Miranda's 'subtle' glances in her direction. Miranda isn't sure what to make of her. Morinth's imagined the many ways she could kill her in the small shuttle. Most of them end with Miranda smeared along the walls. Other times she mounts her until Miranda begs for Morinth to have her. All are amusing, but the thoughts leave her aroused and irritated. She'll play along with Shepard and Miranda—for now.

"I have a confession," Miranda says. Morinth looks away from the river of stars outside the small cubed window. The woman is clearly uneasy. Good. "Our main priority is to get Oriana but there's... another component. It's a little trickier and...it will require discretion."

Morinth's interest perks, but she doesn't move a muscle. "This matter is of great concern to you." Impersonating Samara's voice, while helpful, can become tedious. On this occasion she must fight to keep the smile from her voice. "I will gladly listen if you think I would be of assistance." Shepard asked her to assist and so she will assist. She's surprised that there's another piece to the rescue operation, one that Shepard didn't tell her. One of them, Miranda or Shepard, has been a bad girl. Morinth is delighted.

Miranda nods but still she hesitates. Morinth keeps her hands patiently folded in her lap. Finally, she begins. "When Project Lazarus was created I was charged with bringing back Shepard. The scope of the project was unprecedented. It was a million to one odds of succeeding and even if we did—there were no guarantees that she would come back right." Morinth bites back a smile. Her mother is dead. Shepard didn't come back right. Not Miranda's version of right. "And so, another department was created. They were tasked with creating clones of Shepard." Miranda waits for a reaction.

"I see." Morinth provides.

"The reasons why are irrelevant. The point is that one is loose. I believe she's going by the name of Grace. And I have reason to believe that she's the one who killed Enyala—the woman who brought Oriana to my father."

"You require my aid to give her thanks?" Morinth asks. Miranda blinks at her. This is why playing Samara is a nuisance. "The execution seems just."

"Maybe," Miranda admits reluctantly. "Regardless, that clone is Cerberus property. We can't risk her running loose. It'll turn Shepard against Cerberus and might endanger the battle against the Reapers. If we see the clone we'll take her into custody or kill her."

"An impostor," Morinth muses, "wearing the face of another. To what end, I wonder."

"That's irrelevant. That thing is a clone, meant to replace whatever Shepard may lose. If it has wants or needs, they don't matter." She crosses her arms and tilts her head back. 'Samara' nods in agreement. _Bitch._ "Whatever we find, we can't tell Shepard about it. We need her strong and focused. We can't afford another disaster like the suicide mission," she mutters.

"Are you still blaming yourself for the barrier?" Morinth knows she is. She knows her type. Miranda won't confide in her but the reminder will weigh heavily on her mind. "I know the importance of discretion, Miranda. I am honored by your trust."

So, there is another Shepard on the loose. A fraud. Morinth hides her smile. This will be fun after all.

* * *

There is a line of dead bodies in their wake. The guards were competent, but outmatched. X3 wears her combat armor, gray and black with gold lines. Annalise is outfitted in a black bodysuit with gold trim. Her helmet has a targeting and threat analysis computer that juts out like some strange tumor. Some part of Annalise registers giddiness at the fact that she has rocket boots. _Join Cerberus, kids! It's just like the movies!_

X3 kills another guard with unnerving ease. Her palm cannon is deadly, but she seems to greatly prefer her sword. Annalise steps over the corpse. X3 is almost supernatural; Kali, a goddess of death. If they were to become separated, it would be easy enough to find her again. Just follow the trail of blood and severed limbs.

Annalise has taken her share of heads. Her aim is good, her arms strong and untiring. The M-98 Widow that she carries is no burden. It is her instrument, practically an extension of herself. Cerberus made her into this. It's what she wanted. Her muscles hum with satisfaction.

She and X3 work in harmony, cloaking and moving in unison, playing to each other's strengths. When they encounter more hardened resistance, one of them uncloaks, creating a lure for the opposition. When the target reveals itself, they receive a bullet through the head or a blade through the chest.

They've memorized the layout of the compound. Quickly, they find the room where the computer is located. It's someone's personal library, a collection of antique books arranged on dozens of shelves. There's a man in the room, frantically typing on the terminal. He hasn't had enough time to wipe the server. X3 neatly inserts her monomolecular blade into one of his eye sockets. She removes him with a booted foot, shoving him over in his chair.

Annalise moves to the terminal. The man managed to lock it, but she quickly overrides it and hacks her way in. Cerberus has the best infiltration tech. She establishes the uplink and begins the data transfer. It will take a minute, perhaps less. She pulls up her mask and turns to X3. She has picked up a hardcover book and is examining it. It's spattered with blood.

"Anything good?"

X3 opens it, gingerly fingering through the first few pages. "The title indicates it's about rodents and people."

Annalise reaches over and gently nudges the book cover so she can see it. Ah. Steinbeck. She's familiar. She played Curley's wife in a high school play once. She laughs. "I didn't know you had a sense of humor, Three."

X3 has pulled up her mask as well. She looks to Annalise quizzically.

She straightens her face. "Never judge a book by its cover, Three. It's kind of a downer, but good. You should take it. But you'll have to keep it hidden." Unsanctioned books are practically contraband in the Facility.

"I've never read a book before."

Annalise laughs again. X3 is on a roll today with the jokes. "More of a magazine girl?" X3 stares back. Perfect deadpan. The terminal beeps. "Okay, we're done here. Let's go. Leng will be waiting for us in the shuttle." She wouldn't put it past the bastard to leave them behind for being a minute late.

X3 follows, tucking the book into a pouch as they exit the room.

* * *

Grace keeps the hood over her head as she buys noodles from a mother and daughter duo at a small food stand. She hadn't realized she was hungry until the waft of food summoned her. She wouldn't have stopped if the daughter, at a glance, hadn't borne a resemblance to Liara T'Soni.

Grace wonders where she is, how she is. Their interaction was brief but it's stuck with her. She tries not to look at the photograph tucked away in her omni-tool. Sometimes she rereads her Prothean papers. Sometimes Liara creeps into her dreams. There are... thoughts... that seem more than thoughts, more than imagination, vague and oddly specific. The kiss was... _Don't think of her. Get to Oriana. Get to Hope._

"You're out late," Grace says. Before shooting Enyala she explored Thessia late into several nights. Restaurants are open until all hours. The food stands shut down earlier. These asari are friendly and give her a larger size of the to-go cup than she orders. The noodles steam fat tendrils of white in the chill of the night. Orbs of light are scattered decoratively, bathing the city in a warm, soothing glow. The younger asari smiles at her. Grace returns it. She transfers the credits, tipping generously.

"It's hard to compete with those other restaurants," the mother begins to gather the limited belongings scattered on the counter. "We have to stay out later to stay afloat."

Grace raises the cup of noodles. "Wish you didn't have to. But I appreciate it."

"Uh—we're just closing up," the daughter says when Grace begins walking off. "There's a club not too far from here. I mean—"

Grace pauses in the middle of twirling the noodles around the cup. Her stomach grumbles. Really, she's flattered. She returns to the girl's side and nods at the mother who pretends not to watch. "I really can't," she tells her quietly. She sees a shadow move behind the girl. Then several shadows, stealthy, stalking. They caught up to her because she stopped for noodles. Because the food stand girl looked like Liara. What would Hope say? _How could you be so stupid?_ She has to move. "But thank you. Goodnight."

Grace turns speedily, taking a quick bite of the noodles, moving fluidly through the crowds that meander the streets. She kicks herself for dawdling, for getting lost in thoughts. She takes another two gulps of noodles before regretfully chucking them into the nearest trashcan. Dark restaurant glass works as well as any mirror. Grace sees them. Six soldiers. There are too many people. It's too dangerous to fight here. It was too dangerous to fight on the campus but she didn't have a choice then.

She slips into a skinny alleyway. The walls are wet. She hurries through, making it to the other side before coming to the docks. There is a string of unlit buildings. Grace chooses one, blasting the window lock with biotic power, lifting the window and shimmying inside. Grace isn't sure what the building is. It looks like a warehouse. Massive crates are stacked neatly. Pale circles of light hang overhead, cutting light like bars along the shadowy floor.

There's a bang on the door followed by a quick succession of footsteps. Her heartbeat ramps up. She could run. _I won't run._ What's the point? Better here than out there. She won't risk innocents because she killed the wrong asari. _Or kidnapped the wrong girl? **Rescued.**_

They file in with thick military armor, assault rifles pointed at her. Humans. Bold to be sneaking around Thessia in military gear. Henry Lawson is determined. She thinks of several different ways to kill them all. Maybe there's a way to avoid it. _Don't be stupid. Kill them all. Get to Oriana. Get to Hope._

"Where's the girl?" One of them asks. Grace's skin tingles. The hair on her arms and the back of her neck stands on end. They'll shoot first and ask questions later. _No. They won't._ "Henry Lawson is willing to compensate you handsomely for her return."

With a bullet? "I don't know where she is," Grace says. It happens to be the truth. Not that they'll believe her. "Sorry."

They step closer. "There are two ways for this to end, Shepard."

Ah, that name again. She can't escape it. She can't escape her face. She can't escape people's expectations, their plans. She can't die here. She won't die here. Henry Lawson is a threat. If she lets them kill her, who will make sure Oriana and Hope get away safely? _If they kill you, you won't have to kill Shepard._ She won't kill Shepard, no matter how happy it'd make Hope. What's the point in killing a hero Spectre? Liara T'Soni loves Shepard. She lost Shepard once, didn't she? What would it do to her to lose her again? Shepard loves Liara. Shepard will be good to Liara. _Forget Liara. Forget Hope. Forget Shepard. Focus on the six soldiers with guns pointed at you._ "I don't know where she is. I wouldn't tell you if I did. This _will_ end one of two ways. One option: you let me walk out of here and you go back to Henry Lawson and tell him I didn't have the answers he was looking for. Second option: You let your corpses do the talking. Which will it be?"

There's the click of several assault rifles, lifted to the ready. Grace cloaks in a biotic barrier. So that's how it's going to be. She throws three of them back, their cries cutting short as they slam into the ground. They're helmeted. She yanks the Paladin loose from its holster, squeezing a shot into one soldier's eye piece. The soldier seems to spin on his heel before dropping, lifeless. She sprints around one of the crates, finding cover. They shout orders at one another. They'll try to flank her. One runs around the corner. Grace grabs him, slides behind, pulls up on his chin. Her omni-blade out, she slashes across the half-inch of skin exposed on his throat. Blood sprays wildly.

She hates this. She kicks him out of cover and sneaks around the other side. The beams overhead are cracked. A hail of bullets sprays in her direction. She jerks the beam down with a biotic pull. It swings uncontrollably, crashing into one of the men and impaling him. Shots ring out, skipping off her barrier. She was cold before, now she burns. No armor. One fuck up and she's gone. She's covered in sweat.

The three remaining soldiers are crouched behind cover. Grace tries to steady her breathing. She should have eaten more. Maintaining the barrier is physically hurting her. No armor, no mods, no cooldown amps. Her nose bleeds. _You've got to wrap this up, fast._ Determined once more she sends out a pull field, ensnaring the soldiers, suspending them in midair. It's unfair to them, really. Grace goes to them and yanks off their helmets. There's nothing remarkable about them. They're shouting, screaming, begging. She could let them go. But they'd return angrier, with more men, after Oriana, after anyone who helped her. "Do you have families?" she asks. "Someone I could send a message to?" One of them swears and spits in her face.

Grace wipes at it. She isn't sure if the spit is bloody or it's her face. Her hand is red. She studies it, flexing her fingers before lifting the Paladin squarely and squeezing out three dispassionate shots. They crumple. Life is so fragile. It makes her sad. She's still staring at them when she sees red dots dancing along the ground.

"Freeze, Shepard!" Grace turns, Paladin pointed. Four commandos. Great. One of them looks familiar... "Drop your weapon! Drop it!" She doesn't. She keeps it poised on them, measuring her breathing. Is this it...? Is this the end of the line? She thinks of Hope and Oriana. She thinks of _the plan._ It's all falling apart. She grips the pistol tighter. "You're wanted for questioning by the Thessia Confederacy of Republics in the matter of the disappearance of Oriana Lawson."

Grace grits her jaw. Their barriers are strong. They cascade over her. Recognition dawns on her. Ilos. The scientists. The commando. "Lieutenant Kurin."

"Don't fight this, Shepard. I've seen what you can do. Don't make it into something bigger than it already is. You helped me before. I'll try to help you now but not if you don't stand down." Kurin doesn't lower the assault rifle. Assassins bent on killing her and kidnapping a girl are one thing. Agents of a diplomacy-driven government sent to question her are another.

 _What about Hope and Oriana? Kill the commandos. Hope would want you to blow their brains out. The mission comes first. The mission always comes first._ She takes a step forward, pistol still brandished, arms tense. "Let me walk out of here. I don't want to fight." There's a red dot over her heart, she feels the heat of another laser on her forehead. The safeties are released. Grace exhales shakily. Blood dribbles down her nose and over her mouth. The barrier won't mean anything at this range. Maintaining it is making her nauseous. She takes another step forward. They don't pull the trigger. They're shaky. _If you're going to kill them, kill them. Don't hold back. Slaughter them. Get to Oriana. Get to Hope._ What would killing them mean? Would all of Thessia pursue her? Would it be worth it to get to the space port? _Do you want innocent blood on your hands? Is that the kind of person you want to be?_

Perspiration beads on Kurin's forehead. She's nervous. Scared. Grace has the advantage. She hears Hope's voice in her mind, telling her to do what needs to be done. She drops the gun. The commandos look relieved. She's still as Kurin slips behind her, pulling her arms back, breathing an apology. She's numb as Kurin slaps omni-cuffs onto her wrists. She's trapped. Arrested. It's over. It's over.

They march her out the warehouse and through the city. They march her past the food stand where she bought noodles earlier in the night. Her face burns with shame. Smeared in blood, cuffed and escorted by commandos. How did everything go so wrong?


	18. Blood

Combat engineer Meer grins as he kneels, removes the pack from his back and begins to set up the turret. He looks far better beneath the helmet, a head of coal hair, a somewhat square jaw and sharp cheekbones accented by bright blue eyes. Meer is armed with an M-5 Phalanx and light, mobile armor. The engineers are stuck-up showoffs. The phantoms are weirdoes, the soldiers are dumb jocks and the nemeses are the cheerleaders of the lot. Annalise is surprised that Cerberus is another version of high school. "Takes no time at all. I set this baby up and it'll mow the opposition down in seconds."

"Cerberus has the best toys," Annalise says. X3 doesn't react. She has the emotional range of a toaster. Aside from the tick at the corner of her mouth she says and expresses nothing. Annalise likes to think that she has come to understand her partner. Three is not impressed. "After you set it up what do you do? Hide until the battle's over?"

"We can't all cloak from the very beginning," he tells her good naturedly. "Damn shame. Some things are too beautiful to hide."

Annalise rolls her eyes and smiles but X3 walks away. Annalise follows, eventually matching pace with her. "'Everyone has their own special talent to contribute to Cerberus'," she tells her, imitating an AI the best she can. She played one in _AI Love_. The film was hailed as a remarkable and thought-provoking love story between AIs and organics. "Meer's particular talents revolve around turrets and killer drones."

"He's not really fighting."

X3 lives the philosophy of channeling the weapon, being the weapon. She doesn't realize how rare it is to reach that level of perfection. She doesn't realize that the difference between the Alliance and Cerberus is like the difference between two different high schools. Different mascots, different rivals. "He's helping us. He's helping Cerberus. I won't complain about having a few of those things between me and some slaving batarians." She hears gunshots in the distance but isn't sure if it's from the shooting range or some further realm imbedded in her memory. "That's how they drive their economy, can you believe it?" Annalise turns back, hearing a scream. Nothing. She faces her partner. X3's absent rage is disappointing. "I wonder what those four-eyed fuglies tell their kids. 'Someday you can be a slaver just like daddy.' It warms the heart."

X3 stops and looks at her. She cocks her head slowly to the side and then resumes walking. Annalise follows. "We have not engaged batarians," X3 tells her matter-of-factly.

As if she doesn't know. Memories become fuzzy after a time. Sometimes her head feels as if it's being hit with a sledgehammer but Annalise does know that. Her arms aren't as stiff as they once were. Maybe she's gotten used to the pain. What would they all think now? She can out-snipe just about anyone. Even that turian maniac on Omega. What would those castoffs of the old life think about her joining Cerberus? _They don't have opinions anymore._ "I wouldn't forget if we had."

"Leng says anger is pointless." She explains it as if regurgitating something she heard but doesn't quite understand. "It makes us... sloppy."

"You take advice from Leng now?" A crinkle touches X3's brow. "He's an asshole."

X3 steps close, grips her face in her hand and squeezes. Her eyes... one green, one brown. There's a spark in them. "Don't say that." Three is holding back. The facility is always cold. Three's hand is warm. Annalise is no longer accustomed to contact. It's disconcerting. She averts her eyes. Quieter: "He doesn't like you." Annalise chills. Kai Leng doesn't like her. Three doesn't invent stories. This is a warning. Three releases her and keeps walking. Annalise chases after her. Three talks without looking at her. An annoying habit she's picked up from Kai Leng. "There's something you look at. I've seen it. We're not allowed personal effects. You know that. Get rid of it."

"I won't." Annalise says. She could bring up the book X3 reads beneath her covers at night, but doesn't. Unsanctioned reading materials definitely aren't allowed.

X3 stops abruptly once more. She's unused to defiance. Uncertainty crosses her features.

* * *

Inquisitor Joria pulls an oily black glove over her hand. It wraps around her fingers like a second skin. Her skills are rare, and they have brought her wealth and status within the Order. She enjoys her work. Why shouldn't she? Her talents serve the Goddess, and that which serves the Goddess serves the Republics.

Lieutenant Kurin looks worriedly at her as they walk through slim but delicately curved halls. Other suspects are being interrogated in cramped rooms, their eyes lingering over her midnight blue skin and white face markings as she passes. She wasn't called for them. They are insignificant.

They come to a door. Kurin's face is muddied with unspoken thoughts. The Inquisitor senses her reservations and stares until Kurin is compelled to speak. "Her weapons and biotic amp have been taken."

"Are you asking me to be gentle?"

"I don't know which Matriarch's tits Henry Lawson twisted to get an Inquisitor involved. Whatever he's paying, whoever he's bribed, I don't care. There's due process on Thessia. You damn well better leave her in one piece," she says through gritted teeth.

Kurin leaves. Joria peers through the one-way window to the cell. Shepard's face is mussed, dried blood patched around her nose and mouth. The lieutenant needn't worry. This won't take long. Ten minutes can be an eternity to those she works on.

When Joria enters the room, Shepard isn't afraid. She will be. "You saved the Destiny Ascension," Joria states, walking to her.

"Who are you?" The woman is bound to a chair with omni-cuffs. She's suspicious but unassuming.

Joria rolls her neck softly to one side and then the other. Grateful for the glove, she takes Shepard's face tightly in her hand. Humans are a pox on the galaxy, no better than worms, even if this one did stop Saren and save the Council. She doesn't like how they smell. "I'm Inquisitor Joria. Thank you for the Destiny Ascension. You served the Goddess well on that day. Today, you will serve Her again."

Her eyes go black as they lock onto Shepard's. It's so easy to be in. "Let's begin," she tells her. Shepard's mental barriers are strong. Joria pulls a thin blade from a sheath and slides it into the woman's shoulder. Joria feels an electric jolt where Shepard feels sharp, intense pain. Some of the barrier dissipates.

Her memories are like a disorganized minefield. / _You're going to tell me everything you know._ /

But Shepard resists. Her mind is dense. Like a forest canopy, it is nearly impenetrable. The Inquisitor turns the blade viciously. / _Scream. You know you want to._ /

The only response is a soft, tight exhalation of breath. The Inquisitor smiles. She's always enjoyed a challenge.

* * *

Columns of lightning illuminate the hills, their muted reflections cutting across the lake that abuts the campus. Moments later, a low rumble of thunder issues a belated warning. Miranda has always been drawn to the tempest, but this is not the best time. She looks up. The patch of sky directly overhead remains clear for the moment, a pristine black canvas speckled with pinpoints of starlight. At a glance, she would hardly know she wasn't on Earth. With a longer look, the star formations give it away.

Miranda remembers Thessia's night sky quite well. During her four years here as a student, she had ample opportunity to commit it to memory. She got used to the food and the culture, but she never quite got used to the violet and magenta hues of daytime. Combined with the asari's abiding fascination with pastels, she always had the vague sense that she was living in a painting, the realization of some impressionist's dream.

The Illusive Man sent her to Thessia almost immediately after recruiting her, paying the extravagant cost of her tuition. He had plans for her, he promised, for which she would need the best education possible. The University of Serrice was considered the galaxy's premier institution of learning. If humanity was to catch up to the rest of galactic civilization, they would first need to learn all that the other species had to offer. Miranda took an accelerated curriculum, specializing in exo-medicine, cramming what most ambitious students would consider eight years of studies into four. It was challenging work that left little time for socialization, but she excelled.

After she graduated, she returned to Cerberus, brimming with an eagerness to serve humanity. Miranda regarded the Illusive Man as a figure of unyielding strength and unshakable purpose, the one person who could defy her father. He gave her something to believe in, something to fight for. He gave her the peace of mind that came with knowing Oriana would be raised by a loving family and given every opportunity to make her own future.

Henry Lawson had always played the part of the doting father, never refusing Miranda any material want or need, yet never giving her anything _real_. She lived in a gilded cage, surrounded by servants and sycophants, her petty destiny all plotted out for her. When the first human children with biotics were discovered, her father lamented that he had created her too soon. When she was nine, he decided to rectify his lack of foresight by putting her under the knife. In the first procedure of its kind in human history, a team of surgeons implanted nodules of element zero along her spinal cord. The operation nearly killed her.

It took months to fully recover, even with her accelerated healing. She was forced to eat eezo-laced food that made her violently ill until her body adjusted. There was one silver lining. Niket. As a concession to the extreme discomfort of her recovery, her father allowed her to spend time with the boy who would become her first and only childhood friend.

Miranda worries for Niket. The intel she received from Liara months ago indicated he departed Illium on the same ship as Enyala and a "young girl." Her father's people took him, along with Oriana. Has he been harmed? Is he dead? Is that why she hasn't heard from him? As lightning flashes, more brightly this time, she thinks of the time she and Niket sat on the balcony, watching a spectacular thunderstorm roll in across the plains of Queensland.

The ensuing clap of thunder trails more closely than before. Clouds quickly move overhead, obscuring the stars. A rising wind whips her hair around her face as she stands in a familiar plaza, on the very campus she once roamed with regularity. Sunrise is two hours away. The few students that are out at this hour scurry for cover. Soon, it won't be safe to be outside. She looks around for her contact.

It's been several years since Miranda last stood in this place. What odd synchronicity that her father would send Oriana to the same school she attended. She wonders what lies and half-truths he has been feeding her. Does she know that she was fashioned from her father's doubled X chromosomes and extensive genetic tinkering? Is she aware that Miranda is more than just her sister? Certainly, he won't have told her about the dozens of discarded daughters that came before Miranda, daughters he ended like failed experiments.

Henry Lawson will have learned from his past mistakes. Miranda escaped, and Oriana is no child that can be so easily caged. He will be more subtle in his manipulations, giving her just long enough a leash to maintain the illusion of freedom. He can be charming and persuasive. He will have convinced her that Miranda is a xenophobic terrorist. When she finds her, their reunion will have to be handled very delicately. Why did Rasa and the clone abduct her? What is their agenda?

Miranda and Samara split up at the spaceport, after Miranda received another sighting notification. 'Shepard' was seen being taken into custody just hours ago. The justicar headed directly over to the facility where the clone was being held, to find out whatever she could. Samara can gain access where Miranda cannot. If the clone is here in this city, then Rasa can't be far away. Miranda has a plan to locate her, if she can just get a few minutes access to the university's interferometer array.

Rasa thinks her QEC device can't be tracked. She's mostly right. The communications sent by the device are untraceable. There is no signal to intercept or electronic path to follow. The paired devices house quantum-linked particles stabilized by electromagnetic containment fields. When one particle is 'charged,' the other one instantly and automatically mirrors it, because they are essentially the same particle. The physical distance between them is irrelevant, be it measured in meters or light years.

The EM fields within the devices are the weak link that will lead Miranda to Rasa. If she destroys the device she recovered from Gardner, the containment field will collapse, instantly destabilizing the quantum link. In theory, this should set off a chain reaction, causing the EM field in the paired device to collapse as well, giving off a distinct burst of radiation that can be detected and triangulated. It's an untested idea, gleaned from reading through Samantha Traynor's papers, but it's her best hope. When this is all over, perhaps she'll have another reason to thank Ms. Traynor.

Miranda sees an asari with indigo skin approaching briskly. Her contact. A teaching assistant during Miranda's time here, she is now a full professor with just the kind of access that Miranda needs. One that happens to owe her a favor. Miranda walks to her, smiling as warmly as she can manage. As she extends her hand, the rain begins to pour.

* * *

A sheen of sweat glistens on Inquisitor Joria's brow. The air in the interrogation room is warm and she's been at it for over two hours. Shepard continues to stymie her. She suspects the human is hiding much more than knowledge of Oriana Lawson's whereabouts. Her tolerance for pain is admirable. Moreover, she has quickly learned to utilize her pain, channeling it back through Joria's link, making her task as uncomfortable as possible. Few asari are so skillful. Remarkable that a mere human would have such aptitude.

Still, Shepard's resourcefulness will not deter Joria from her duty. She is a priestess of the Order of Divine Inquiry, and a loyal servant of the Republics. She learned to embrace pain long ago, all but befriending it. She has abilities, well-guarded secrets of her sect, considered to be myth and legend by most asari. Abilities paid for with centuries of blood, pain, and discipline. The Goddess rewards her most devoted servants.

Shepard can't hide everything. Joria has managed to glean a variety of scattered images from the surface of her mind. A hazy remembrance of a drunken father, a fleeting glimpse of an asari lover in the throes of passion, a flash of a turian hovering on a geth flying device, and so on. Many of the memories have a strange quality to them. At first, Joria can't put her finger on it, but then she realizes what it is. They lack context.

Memories typically have a certain, sloppy sequence to them, a haphazard, organic way of connecting. Shepard's memories seem to lack the usual connectors. They feel _artificial_. No, not artificial exactly; more like copies, projected through a lens. It would fool most, perhaps, but Joria has been inside enough minds, tinkered with enough people's memories to recognize the signs.

Joria realizes she's gritting her teeth. Unclenching her jaw, she studies the face of her captive. Hazel eyes stare defiantly back at her. The human's mien is stony, but sweat runs over her in rivulets, turning dried blood into a runny stain. Damp, dark hair plasters her face and scalp. Her threshold for pain has not yet been breached, but Joria's ministrations are taking their toll.

"You can't keep me out forever, human," Joria smiles, trailing a stiletto slowly along the woman's stomach.

Somehow, the woman smiles back at her. "Go fuck yourself. You won't get anything from me."

Joria chuckles. "Oh, but I already have." Her eyes go dark once again. She takes another stab, literally and figuratively, sliding the blade into flesh once again. / _You're not Commander Shepard. Who are you?_ /

Success. For the first time, fear glimmers in the human's eyes. The bulwark cracks, and something trickles through.

Ah. Joria's smile widens with satisfaction. / _Hello, Grace_./

* * *

Major Kyle flashed a toothy grin. His armor was grimy with blood and guts. Shepard breathed hard. Her gloves were slick with bodily fluids. The gun nearly slipped from her hand. Batarian corpses lined the battered ground like weeds. Alliance bodies were scattered amongst them. She turned on legs that felt like rubber. She took one shaky step and then another. _We got them, sir._ He continued to grin at her, eyes wide, teeth bloody. Sweat trickled on his brow. His breath spasmed. Major Kyle. Her CO. His mind snapped. At what point does a _mind_ snap?

 _Struggle, if you wish. Your mind will be mine._

Fogginess traps. It holds her like a sedative. It straddles her. Fingers dip into her brain. She convulses on the table.

Liara touched her face. Shepard's heart plummeted. Fear filled her like a virus. Ilos was on the horizon. Shepard once readily gave herself to craving. It was a comfort. She kept her distance from Liara. Liara crawled into her head, into her heart, into her soul. Giving herself to Liara was a forfeiture of any independence. Liara cut through the armor, pierced her through. She was shy, warm, radiant, perfect. It hurt to know her undoing. They made love for the first time. They transcended the stars. Shepard panicked. Her eyes burned with love or anger or fear. _I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life loving you._ Liara smiled at the words. Her eyes went black.

Shepard opens her eyes. The lights are out. Her heartbeat is staggered. Light. Blinding. No. Shadows. Shadows everywhere. She makes a sound like a scream.

"Goddamn it! She's waking up! Give her more sedatives!"

Miranda? A sharp sting and everything is fuzzy again. A persistent, quiet soothing lulls her back to unconsciousness.

Karin Chakwas tapped a pen on the clipboard as she looked her over. _You can't help but get into trouble, can you?_ Her hair was peppered with black. Her lipstick a touch too red. _Go on. Get on the scale._ Shepard stepped onto it. Chakwas made notes. _I have a file filled with incident and medical reports for you, girl._ She lifted an omni-tool to run a diagnostic. She tut-tutted and made more notes. _You're half medi-gel by now. I know how you like to live on the edge Jane but one of these days you're going to kill me._ Shepard laughed.

She takes a deep breath and it's as if she's taken it underwater. She gasps and chokes. There's a pounding somewhere. A pounding in her mind.

A bright day. A day like any other. She walked into the apartment. Mom was never home. _Looks like it's you and me again, Kiddo._ Dad always said that kind of thing. A bum knee and an itchy trigger finger and he was put behind a desk. He spent the rest of his days drinking. The way her mother looked at him made Jane's skin crawl. She found him slumped on the floor, face purple, tongue sticking out. Hung from a doorknob. She cut him loose and he fell like a log. She stood whimpering. Blank. When Hannah got home Jane screamed at her. _You did this to him!_ She shoved her. Hannah slammed into a wall, a family frame falling off the wall like some cliche.

She wakes up. Kenson. Kenson. She's got to get to Kenson. She's on a metal slab. Blinding lights nearly paralyze her. She's in a steel cubicle. Some sterile labyrinth. Aratoht. The Reapers are coming. The Reapers are coming in two days. _Maybe less._ Shepard moves her legs too slowly, swinging them to the side. When she stands she makes no sound. There's a lab assistant playing with a computer console. Shepard sneaks over to her and with a crack snaps her neck.

Samara lies at her feet, eyes wide open, the bones unnatural in her neck.

 _Is this what you are, Shepard?_ The voice nearly makes her cry with joy, with relief.

"Tali?" Shepard looks around. The room is empty. There is no scientist. There is no Tali. There is only her figure lying prone in a medical bed. Shepard walks back. There is a collection of medical tools beside the bed. Butcher knives. _Butcher._ Ash. _Butcher of Torfan is a little limiting, isn't it Skipper?_ Her voice whispers along her skin. Shepard turns sharply. _I guess Cerberus is right for you. I remember when you swore to wipe them out. Guess you came back different._ "Shut up!" she lifts the butcher knife and slams it into the other Shepard's stomach. Blood spurts out. The tank top soaks red. Shepard brings her hands to the other Shepard's face. "You are not me _,"_ she hisses. Snap.

Garrus swiveled his bony hips. Shepard clapped her hands and danced alongside him. It's nice having a best friend. The nightclub was dark and the music too loud. The constant pound of the bass made her head ache but she felt the vibration all over her body like a calling, a demand to obey, to follow the beat. She drank the shot on the dance floor. _No amount of drinking is going to help those dance moves. Look at me._ Garrus pumped his fist in the air. _This. Is. Talent._

The fish tank was never going to last. She's bleeding. On him. Swinging, the gun at his head. You son of a bitch. _I want you off my ship._ She shoots. His brains explode. He bleeds out blue in her cabin, like a sad bird dinosaur. Shepard stares at him before bringing the gun to her own head and pulling the trigger.

She jumps awake. Groggy. The room is sharp. The room is a Picasso painting in grey. Kenson. She's got to get to Kenson. There's a scientist. She spots Shepard. She tries to scream. Shepard moves her legs without direction. Her fists connect with the scientists face. She punches until the woman doesn't have a face anymore. Shepard sags, hands on her knees, breathing haphazardly. Her skin tingles. Kenson. Kenson is indoctrinated. The Reapers are arriving in two days.

She shuffles her way to the control unit. She's trapped in the room. She's disoriented. The room is too small. She's claustrophobic. What fucking sedatives are in her system? She feels weird. _All right, Jane. Get it together. Breathe. Breathe. There must be some way out of here._ Through the glass panel she spots mechs in the other room. Machines. Maybe she can control the machines. Maybe they can get her out of this mess.

* * *

"The blonde is in violation of Cerberus protocol." Kai Leng directs the words to X3, even though Annalise is much closer to him. Circles of light shine down on the sparring mat in a straight line, casting shadows on the outskirts of the room. Leng moves very quietly. Annalise didn't hear him enter the room. She goes cold.

Three's expressionless face betrays nothing. "She is not my responsibility."

"Wrong." Leng marches to her. X3 had been practicing sword work. Her graceful but violent strokes are like a dance. She is nimble and quick. Despite that, she stands still as Leng viciously backhands her. The echo travels across the mat room. Three's head jerks to the side. When she faces him again her nose and mouth are bleeding. Still, she reveals nothing. Annalise wonders if she felt the blow. "She's your partner. Cerberus is your family. Violation of protocol hurts Cerberus. You've indulged the celebrity long enough." Three says nothing. Leng stands closer to Three. They're close enough to kiss or for one to impale the other. "Your replacement is in custody on Thessia. I expect she'll be here soon. Cerberus has no need for spare parts that are incapable of doing the very little that is required."

Three's fingers clench around the hilt of her blade. Leng smiles. "Take the blonde's artifact and destroy it." Three doesn't move. Annalise's heart startles. She takes a step back despite the distance the other two keep. "Remind her of Cerberus' expectations." There's a murmur. Annalise doesn't hear it but whatever it is causes Leng to slam a fist into Three's stomach, followed by an equally violent but indifferent slam to her face. Three stumbles.

"Stop it!" Annalise shouts. Leng kneels next to Three. He grabs her by the scruff of her uniform and headbutts her. Annalise sprints. Leng flicks an arm back without looking. His blade is at her throat. She swallows and feels the sting on her neck.

"Take care of this, X3. Or I will."

"Yes, sir."

Leng stands and sheathes his blade. Three rises slowly. Sweat and blood drip from her face. Annalise retreats from those emotionless eyes, one step, then another, before turning and running. Some part of her always imagined this moment. Not the sparring of sessions but a genuine confrontation. Annalise is fast but Three is faster. She catches her near instantly and thrusts her into one of the burning spotlights.

Her arm is twisted behind her. She thought her arms had numbed to pain but she hears the pop as her shoulder is dislocated. Annalise screams. Three tenses, but does not hesitate as she reaches around, fingers slipping into the front of her uniform and withdrawing the photograph from where it's kept. Annalise listens to the material crush in Three's hand before she's pushed roughly to the floor. Three tears the photograph despite Annalise's screams and looks to Leng. "Satisfied?" Leng is unreadable. "I have my own personal effect. A book. Would you like to show me a family's response?"

Leng laughs. Three stiffens. Warmth spreads over Annalise's stomach. Annalise didn't hear the bang of the pistol. Leng moves toward the exit. "It's your fault if she dies. The blonde's a distraction Cerberus never needed."

The lights above are blinding. Annalise sees them through a haze as Three stoops beside her.

* * *

The Inquisitor wipes her knife clean and returns it to its sheath. The human is unconscious. She will live, though Joria doesn't envy what will become of her. For four hours, 'Grace Morgan' resisted her. In seven hundred years, no other subject has held out half as long. In the end, however, Joria succeeded in dismantling her defenses, brick by brick, and extracting the information she needed. The will of the Goddess has been done.

Joria straightens herself and moves to leave. The door opens and a square-jawed asari enters, blocking the way. Her face is a study of serenity, but something else lurks behind her blue eyes. Something predatory. "Hello, Inquisitor. I am Samara," she states in a mild, unhurried voice.

Joria appraises her. This is no maiden. This is someone well-acquainted with death and killing. Someone dangerous. "You've been watching?"

"Yes," she admits. "When I learned Commander Shepard had been apprehended, I was compelled to come. I observed much of your interrogation. Your methods are harsh. However, your cause is just. The Code permits it."

The Code. Ah. "I'm glad to hear it, Justicar. I do as the Goddess wills."

Samara closes the door behind her. "This woman," she nods toward the human, "is not Commander Shepard."

Joria arches an eyebrow. "That's correct. Though I'm curious to know how you would know that."

"I recently left the service of Commander Shepard. This cannot be her, though the resemblance is striking."

Service? "I see. That's a story I would like to hear. Another time, perhaps." Joria moves toward the door.

The justicar doesn't budge. "What did you learn of this…creature?"

Joria sighs. "She doesn't know what she is."

"And what is she?"

"Isn't it obvious? She's a clone. The last year of her life has been quite eventful, but she doesn't possess a single memory of her own before that time. It's like she stepped out of the Void. How she hasn't figured it out for herself, I don't know."

"Does she believe herself to be Shepard?"

"No, though she has many of her memories, and there is another who intends for her to replace Shepard. The clone calls herself Grace."

Samara nods. "And what of Oriana Lawson? Did you learn where she is?"

Joria folds her arms. "That is not your concern."

The justicar smiles slightly, her eyes dancing. "I'll be the judge of that."

"I'm sure you are accustomed to getting your way, Justicar, but I don't answer to you. You should step away from the door now. Trust me when I say that removing you would be no test for me."

The justicar's smile becomes one of almost childlike delight. "So it's true then, what they say about Inquisitors? Those fantastic powers? I always thought they were children's tales."

Joria narrows her eyes, reappraising the woman before her. "You're no justicar."

Samara waves a hand and Joria finds herself propelled through the air. The collision with the far wall is jarring, momentarily knocking the wind out of her. Samara stalks toward her, wrapped in tendrils of biotic energy, a look of supreme confidence on her face.

Joria regains her footing. Her opponent is stronger than expected, but she cannot possibly be prepared to fight an Inquisitor at the height of her powers. Samara jabs a glowing blue fist at her face. Joria _slides_ at the last moment, vacating the space she was in and reappearing directly behind Samara. She delivers a powerful kick to the small of her back, thrusting her into the wall with a loud thud. That slows the bitch down a bit. Joria grabs her by the lobes and slams her face into the now-cracked wall, once, twice, three times.

Samara starts to turn but Joria doesn't relent. She punches the woman in the side and is rewarded with another grunt of pain. A kick to the back of the knee, and the woman stumbles. Joria draws her stiletto and forces her down. Samara slumps against the wall, the tip of Joria's blade at her throat.

Samara looks up at her. The expression on her bloodied face is unbowed, perhaps even excited. There's something else there, something she can't quite place, something that tickles a warning. Joria dismisses it, cloaked in the righteous wrath of the Goddess. She smirks at her fallen opponent. "Two imposters in one day. How interesting." Her eyes go dark as they lock with Samara's. It's so easy to be in. / _Tell me who you really are_./

Her opponent smiles, lips parting to reveal bloodstained teeth. / _I am Morinth, Demon of the Night Winds_./

The words chill Joria to the bone. Too late, she realizes the mistake she has made. Too late, she recognizes the other thing she saw in Morinth's expression. _Hunger._ Ravenous hunger.

The dagger slips from her hand as she screams.

* * *

Morinth stretches her limbs like a cat. Waves of electricity radiate through her, making every inch of her flesh pulse with pleasure. It's been months since she last feasted, and never has she feasted so well. The Inquisitor was exquisitely powerful, and now her power belongs to Morinth. She all but purrs with satisfaction.

The Inquisitor's corpse slumps at her feet, her face a twisted visage. It won't do to leave her like this. They'll know what happened to her. She unhooks her M-15 Vindicator and empties a burst into the Inquisitor's body, punctuated by a round to the skull. There. That should take care of that.

She looks to the clone, _Grace_ , who has begun to stir. She could kill her right now, while she's helpless. It's what Shepard would want. Miranda wouldn't complain. But there would be no pleasure in it for Morinth. No challenge, no thrill of the hunt. She clamps the Vindicator to her back.

She goes to the clone and unlocks her omni-cuffs, then stoops to examine her injuries. The resemblance truly is uncanny. The clone is every bit the physical specimen that Shepard is, sinewy and radiating strength, despite currently bleeding from several knife wounds. Undoubtedly, the wounds are excruciating, but none are life-threatening. The Inquisitor was skilled. Still, the injuries will slow them down. She reaches for a medi-gel pack.

One of the clone's hands shoots out, snakelike, grabbing her by the wrist. Her grip is a vise. "Who the fuck are you?" she rasps.

Morinth looks into her eyes, coolly. "My name is Samara. I'm going to take you out of here, but we must leave quickly."

The clone looks back at her, measuring her for a long moment. "You… You're the justicar? Shit." She releases Morinth's hand and sits up with a grimace.

The door swings open and Lieutenant Kurin rushes in. She stares at the Inquisitor's corpse lying in a spreading pool of blood. "Goddess! What happened in here?"

Morinth answers. "The Inquisitor determined Commander Shepard was innocent, then tried to assassinate her to cover up her illegal interrogation." The clone furrows her brow. "I could not allow it. We will be leaving momentarily, after you retrieve the commander's bio-amp and weapons."

Kurin looks to Grace, then to Morinth again, uncertainty straining her features.

"Now, Lieutenant."

"Yes, Justicar." Kurin runs off.

Morinth tosses a medi-gel pack to the clone. She tends to her wounds in silence, while Morinth checks her omni-tool. There's a message from Miranda, received minutes ago. _Rasa is at the spaceport, dock D-78. Meet me there._

Kurin returns with Grace's equipment and hands it to her. "Shepard..." she hesitates. "I'm sorry."

Grace's eyes burrow into her. "Did you know this was going to happen?"

She shakes her head. "No! I swear! I've never even met an Inquisitor before. She just barged in here, and… The Matriarchs, they…"

Grace slaps her arm good-naturedly. "I like you, Kurin, so I'll take your word for it," she slams a thermal clip into the Paladin, "this time."

Morinth resists the impulse to roll her eyes. "Commander, we need to go."

* * *

Too much time has passed. Grace moves swiftly through the halls, ignoring the burning medi-gel as it glues her back together. Samara keeps up with her quick pace, looking unhurried in the process. She has to get to the spaceport. She was taken in the night. The skies are turning a midnight blue. The same color as the Inquisitor's skin. What did she pull from her? Her real name. Hope's location. But now she's bleeding out in a holding cell.

Grace makes her way to the skyport. A cab is arriving, a passenger paying before making a call. Grace holds the cab door open and reaches in, yanking the salarian driver out and throwing him onto the terminal. "Sorry," she tells him, climbing inside. There's no time. She has to get to Hope and Oriana. She should have never let Kurin take her into custody. She's fumbling with the cab controls when Samara slides into the passenger side and shuts the door. "What are you doing?"

"I have an appointment to keep. I believe we're headed in the same direction."

"I don't have time for this." Grace steps on the gas. Everything smells like blood and sweat. Why is the justicar here? Hope hadn't mentioned hearing word from the attack on the Collector base. Did they survive? Did this justicar? "You lied to Kurin." She thinks she lied to her. She burns where the blade went in. "Why are you _really_ here? Why are you on Thessia?"

"I am an asari and you are a human. I should be asking you." She looks out the window. Grace takes a quick glance at her as she speeds through the skies. Her eyes are like pale light on the window glass. "I seek out injustice. A grave one was being committed. I thought it appropriate to assist."

But how did she find her? How did she know an injustice was being committed? When did she leave Shepard? Is it possible the asari thinks she's the real Commander Shepard? "You're still not making any sense."

"I suggest you pay attention, Commander. A truck is on path to collide with us."

Grace looks up. A massive truck is racing at top speed in their direction, blasting its horn. Grace swears and yanks the wheel to the side. Colors whiz by, the sounds of cars smashing. The cab spins into three barrel rolls. Samara glows calmly, keeping her balance while Grace slams into the window. "Fuck!"

Samara smiles. "You are a terrible driver." Her face is bloody. Grace retrieves a handkerchief from her pocket hastily and throws it into her lap. Samara takes it and dabs at her face.

Grace peers into the rearview mirror. So far, so good; things look clear for the moment. She skirts another look at Samara. The blood dripping down her nose, to her lips and the bottom of her mouth make her look as if she were a vampire who's just finished feeding.

* * *

It's been raining for hours. As dawn approaches it's slowly letting up.

There's a crackling sound followed by buzzing as the station lights flicker overhead. Hope looks at them cautiously. A thunderstorm passed over the area a short time ago. Oriana, still disguised as an unassuming asari, sits next to other passengers waiting for upcoming flights. She plays with her omni-tool like a bored teenager. Hope supposes she is.

Hope's checked and double-checked her biotic hardening and combat exoskeleton modifications. If the Thessian Republic Guard catches up to her it will mean one hell of a fight. Being slippery fits with her m.o. and she can't take chances given her company.

Hope leans against a wall. She grits her jaw and waits. Grace is late and has sent no word. Has something happened? Has Henry Lawson tracked her? Has Leng? There's been no word from Gardner either. Did they all die? A steady stream of announcements punctuate the air. The shuttle they are meant to take will arrive in half an hour.

 _Something is wrong._

Grace isn't late. Grace doesn't dawdle. Grace doesn't play mind games. Something has happened. She observes the space around her and makes sure Oriana doesn't take off. It was stupid to take her. She's more trouble than she's worth. All clones are. Hope tells herself she isn't sentimental. Thinking back on her past deeds makes it easy to believe. What will Grace think when she learns that she, Miranda and Oriana are the result of arrogant science? All of them, motherless. Hope ponders her own absent family. She only had Cerberus. Once upon a time, in a faraway place, she wanted to stand for something. That family is gone too. She isn't sure who betrayed whom.

Oriana looks over her shoulder. Maybe Grace will see the mistake as an act of good will. Maybe Grace can forgive her deception. The plan will never move forward if she doesn't. _Where is she?_

She glances expectantly at her omni-tool, eager for any word. The light dims and brightens. It's on the fritz. Hope frowns again. She reaches for the Phalanx at her side at the moment that Oriana stands abruptly, lips parted in surprise. Hope whips the pistol to the side but staggers back before she can line up a good shot. A biotic push. She congratulates herself for having the foresight to get the suit modifications.

Miranda's features twist with aggravation. Of course she's alive. Losing the bitch on the suicide mission would be too good to be true. How the hell did she find her? "Where is she?" Miranda growls, advancing. Hope smirks. She could tell her but Miranda fired the first shot. For all her reputation as a diplomat, she's turned to violence first, questions later. _I pushed her to that._ Some part of her is giddy.

"Miranda Lawson. Be still my heart. You still run around in that getup? At your age?" She blocks Miranda's incoming punch and returns one of her own. Heat and pain explodes over Hope's hand as it connects. The sting of her fingers is dulled by the satisfaction that floods over her. That felt _good_. Miranda droops only an instant before righting herself. "Who will be the poster girl for Cerberus now," Hope asks, seeing the welt beginning to form on Miranda's cheek. A pity, with that fair skin of hers.

"I don't have time for witty banter," Miranda pulls the M-3 Predator from her side. Hope cloaks. Miranda is still, her eyes searching the perimeter. The spaceport travelers have run away, save for a few hiding behind several rows of chairs. Miranda breathes slowly. The next moment she's thrown onto her back, a boot slamming into her stomach. She grimaces, the air going out of her.

Hope laughs. Maybe one day Miranda will learn that there are benefits to not wearing heels to a battlefield. "Ready to play nice yet, Lawson?"

Miranda squeezes off a few rounds. The lights of the spaceport flood a blood red. Hope retreats, bleeding in the process. Fortunately the alarm system in the spaceport will make it difficult to track her. Her shields are gone. Shots at such close range make them irrelevant. Hope thought Miranda was smarter than firing wildly when she's trying to recapture her 'sister'. Maybe Miranda isn't thinking anymore. Miranda jumps to her feet. "Stop cloaking, bitch. Tell me where my sister is or I'll finish the job."

An alarm begins to sound. Hope uses it to her advantage, sprinting to the chairs and hurtling over to grab Oriana. She hopes she grabbed the right 'asari'. It's hard to tell them apart. Oriana howls as Hope yanks her to her feet. "Shut up," Hope tells her. Where's Grace? Things are falling apart. "I'd tell you she was better behaved the last I knew her but she's always been a bitch," she says. She uncloaks and brings her pistol to Oriana's head. The sting of the bullets is making it hard to hold the pistol but she smiles and bears it. "Don't worry. I'm not going to blow your brains out. I can't make any promises for Sister Dearest."

Miranda closes in, gun drawn. "Taking hostages, Rasa? How common."

"What can I say? I didn't have eezo fused to my spine to give me that biotic edge. I had to make my own way, on my own merits." She's always had to make do. She's always had to do the unsavory to make up for the hand life dealt her. She isn't bitter about it but doesn't expect the privileged to understand.

"Your name is Rasa?" Oriana squeaks out.

Miranda blinks. The pain is bearable but Hope's arm doesn't agree. The Phalanx slips from her hand and clatters to the floor. Miranda lunges. It's over. Hope thinks maybe she should have just handed Oriana over. Miranda is just about on her. Then there's a shift. A shout. Miranda is sent hurtling back, crashing forcefully into a column. Grace steps forward, bloodied and determined, Paladin drawn and aimed at Miranda.

Samara observes the scene serenely. "Ah. I see that we are just in time for the fun."


	19. Revelations

The small shuttle jerks, rocks pelting it like rain. They're nomads, forced to leave the Thessian spaceport. If not for Samara's intervention they may have been arrested. The asari has proven useful. Hope should be grateful but feels as if there's something amiss. Her shoulder throbs painfully. Outside of Oriana they have all taken a beating. Hope ruminates on the memory of Grace flinging Miranda like a rag doll. She would have finished her had Samara not intervened.

"You're a mess." Hope utters the words quietly enough so the others don't hear. She can smell the blood on Grace. Miranda and Oriana sit opposite them, speaking in hushed tones. Oriana looks unsure. Something like relief colors Miranda's features. Now and then she looks cautiously to Grace, who ignores her altogether. Samara sits alone, her tranquil face observing the stars through a small window. "What happened to you?"

"Lawson's men. Kurin. And an inquisitor named Joria." Grace rubs her face. "Ever met one?" An Inquisitor? Hope thought they were legends. She's heard whispers of a 'Joria'. She assumed it was another invented story. The Boogeymen of the asari. Boogeywomen? Whatever. "I let them arrest me. Kurin's all right." Hope frowns. "But the Inquisitor. Lawson sent her." Hope sees Miranda look over. She slides closer to Grace so she doesn't have to speak over the rumble of the shuttle. "She was in my mind. Squeezing. Searching. She saw things. Knew things." She rubs her forehead. "I thought I was through with all the mind fuckery of this."

"I know."

Grace waits. "I risked you. I risked everything. Sorry." Hope forces her jaw to relax. "I just didn't want to get innocent people involved. I didn't expect things to get so...escalated. I don't know what would have happened if that justicar hadn't shown up." She looks at Samara and speaks softly. "I can't figure her out."

"She's with Miranda and Shepard. Don't trust her." Samara was perhaps the most powerful and dangerous of the candidates considered for the _Normandy_. Her dossier also had the most holes. What drives a mother of three to take up the Code? Hope tried to find out what became of her daughters, but even Cerberus has limits to their information gathering. Much of what transpires on Thessia remains shrouded. She shakes her head. The shuttle hums. She resists the impulse to lean into Grace. She doesn't know where the impulse comes from. She's just tired. There's still much that needs to be said. With the current company it has become imperative. Miranda knows. She can't not know. Thankfully, she hasn't spoken of it. What about Samara? Hope goes lightheaded. Grace's hand covers hers. Oriana and Miranda notice. Hope pulls it away. Grace settles her hands on her knees and looks out the window instead. "I worried." The words are barely a whisper.

There's only a subtle shift of Grace's head. "I risked the mission. It won't happen again."

"No, that isn't—" Hope stops, unsure of what it is she wanted to say. Grace looks at her. "It's fine," she says haltingly. Her face is warm. "It's fine now." But is it? Miranda has been eyeing them since they boarded the shuttle. What a group; a group of imposters. Save for the justicar. Her face is stoic, like a mask. Hope wonders if she can put a bullet into each of them before they could stop her, before Grace could. "Keep your guard up."

Grace nods in understanding.

* * *

She's surprised her spine didn't snap. The feeling along her back has been reduced to a dull ache that borders on numb. Oriana went to the clone and expressed relief at her well-being, even as Miranda dragged herself off the floor. Rasa and the clone brainwashed her. Oriana thought herself safe with them. Why?

Most of her adult existence has been spent trying to safeguard Oriana. Most recently she's spent countless sleepless nights worrying over her, trying desperately to locate her. Shepard stopped the Collectors. Miranda has forgiven much but not everything. Shepard has tried to make amends. She gave her Samara. They got Oriana back. How is this ... _thing_ different? The clone – _Grace_ – is identical. It shouldn't surprise her but it does. Its eyes are softer. How does it feel to know it was only ever meant for scraps that would inevitably be thrown away?

Miranda's cheeks flush thinking of her own father. Oriana is beside her. She's imagined this moment for what feels like a lifetime but is at a loss for words. "Did they mistreat you?" she asks. Oriana crosses her arms and looks out the window. "Well..." Miranda waits. "Are you all right? Did my father – our father – hurt you?"

"I'm fine," Oriana tells her irritably, impatiently. Miranda nods. After all this time she's been reduced to something of a mother hen. "Are you really with Cerberus?" she looks at the crest on Miranda's uniform and turns her nose up. "So what? Now I'm just supposed to go with you? Because you say you're my sister?" Miranda bites her tongue. "I guess everyone's said it. Doesn't mean I want it to be true."

"What you want or don't want doesn't matter. Not wanting something doesn't make it any less true." Though in this instance she can't say Oriana is entirely wrong. Oriana's arms cross more tightly. In the wan blue light of the shuttle, Oriana seems more at a distance. Miranda clenches her fingers. "I never intended to make myself known to you. I've only had good intentions. You were supposed to have been kept safe."

"Father says you kidnapped me when I was a baby. Is that true? Or was it another lie?"

Miranda's heart beats too quickly. Her mouth is dry. She surveys the small shuttle. Rasa and the clone are in the middle of a conversation, Rasa's eyes turning warily to her from time to time. Samara is seemingly thinking of other things. "It's true. But let me be clear: Henry Lawson only cares about Henry Lawson. You were never going to be anything more than a thing to him." It's a fight to keep her voice steady. Her hands are clammy. She doesn't want to have this conversation in front of others. She doesn't trust any of them and yet Oriana does. Everything's wrong. "I can't force you to believe the truth. That's up to you."

"Why should I trust a xenophobic Cerberus operative about anything?" Oriana glares. Perfect. Oriana takes after Jack, mouthing off about things she doesn't understand. "Lilah and Grace were trying to get me back to you. But you shoot first and ask questions later. I thought you were supposed to be more coolheaded than that." Miranda clenches her jaw. Brilliant. No point in showing off Rasa's trail of lies. Oriana's too worked up to listen. "I can't trust anything anymore. I just want to go back to my parents. If they're still alive," she grumbles.

Miranda sighs. Oriana needs space. No words will suffice, no matter how carefully she arranges them. Oriana doesn't have a basis for trusting her. She trusts Shepard's doppelganger, but not her. She can't blame her, really. The only thing she knows of Miranda is that she took her from a life of privilege, gave her to strangers, then ran off and joined one of the most notorious organizations in the galaxy. Once, Miranda was committed to keeping her existence a secret from Oriana. That's no longer an option, even if she wanted it to be.

The minutes pass without counting, filled only with the hypnotic background noises of the shuttle. Everyone seems to have run out of things to say. Oriana stares sullenly at the wall. Miranda plots out future conversations with her, a flowchart of dialogue choices branching in her mind. The clone is napping in her seat, head back and mouth open. Samara has taken up the lotus position on the floor, hands folded serenely in her lap. Rasa looks troubled and lost in thought, rubbing absently at her injured shoulder.

It's Oriana who finally breaks the silence. "Where are we going, anyway?"

"Lusia," Miranda replies. "We'll catch our own ride from there."

"Then what?"

"Then we'll discuss your future." _After we've split ways with Rasa and the clone_. Hmph. Rasa and the clone. She hasn't even considered what to do about them. Is she just going to let them go? How is she going to explain that to the Illusive Man? She will have to explain it, of that she's sure. No use trying to hide her little unsanctioned mission from the Illusive Man. His information network on Thessia may be imperfect, but there's no way today's events have entirely escaped his notice.

"My future? What makes you think you get a say in it? I'm nineteen, you know."

"Ori…"

"Can't you take me back to Illium?" the girl leans forward, pleading. "I have friends there. I'll change my name, dye my hair, get – I don't know – cheekbone implants or whatever."

Miranda shakes her head. "You can never go back there. Ever. Do you understand? He'll find you. You'd only be putting your friends in danger."

Rasa speaks up. "She's right."

Miranda shoots her a sharp glare. "Stay out of this!"

Rasa rolls her eyes and looks away.

Ori starts to yell. "I can't believe this! Why couldn't you all have just left me where I was! I was happy! I would be going to class right now!"

The omni-tool chip in Miranda's left forearm vibrates. Dimly, she realizes it's been vibrating for a few seconds. An incoming call, urgent. She activates the haptic interface. The ID is blocked, but the caller is utilizing high-level Cerberus encryption protocol. Blast. She can't take this right now. She quickly types a message and sends: _Area not secure. Privacy impossible._

The clone who calls herself Grace has woken up and is trying to calm Oriana down. How rich. Miranda doesn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed that Rasa hasn't told Oriana the truth of her beginnings. If she had, the tenor of her conversation with Oriana would certainly have been much different to this point. Oriana would have gotten past this lingering notion that Henry Lawson is a kindly benefactor, or a repentant father trying to right past wrongs. There would be some value in shedding that delusion, at least.

No, it's better that Rasa hasn't told her. When Oriana finds out the truth, it should come from Miranda. Nobody should get that kind of news from a stranger. It's the kind of revelation that shatters one's world. She wonders how it was for the clone. For _Grace_.

The implant in Miranda's forearm continues to vibrate insistently, even as she receives a text response: _Answer now._

She furrows her brow. This is highly irregular. Warily, she connects the call. The holographic image of a man projects into the air, suspended above her outstretched arm. The room falls into a hush.

"Hello, Miranda," the man says. He's filled out since last she saw him. He's wearing goggles of some kind, but it's _him_. She gapes, unable to form words.

Oriana's face lights up. "Niket!"

* * *

Niket was ten years old and precocious in his own right when he first met Miranda. His mother had brought him to the hospital where she worked. _There's a patient,_ she explained _. A girl about your age. She had an operation. She's brave, but very lonely. I'd like you to keep her company for a bit. Can you do that?_

He could, of course. When he walked into that hospital room, his life changed forever. Miranda was pale and thin in her hospital bed, limbs harnessed, and tubes emanating from her. Her eyes lit up with something like hope when she saw him.

They became friends. Years passed, and their bond strengthened. Niket came to adore her in a way that he knew she would never fully reciprocate. When the day came for her to run away from her father, he helped her. How could he not?

That was eighteen years ago. An afterimage of that old, pure feeling still lingers in his mind, but he's not that foolish teenage boy anymore. He has a job to do. The distorted image of Miranda's face wavers on his monitor as she looms over her omni-tool. He can't see the others around her, but he knows she's not alone.

"We'll meet on Illium," he says, punching in a series of digits. "I'm sending you the coordinates now. Bring Ori and only Ori." Their reunion has been less than heartwarming. Miranda feels betrayed. He can understand why, but she really shouldn't have kidnapped her baby sister when she ran. She never told him that part of the plan.

"And you'll let my parents go with Miranda?" It's Oriana's voice. She shoves her face next to Miranda's. "They're okay?"

"Yes, Ori. Your father simply wants you to come home. He has no wish to further inconvenience your adoptive parents. They've been detained due to their suspected association with Miranda and Cerberus. It's all been kept confidential as a precaution against assassination attempts, which is why you haven't heard about it. Your father has made arrangements for their freedom. They're safe and sound in protective custody now."

Miranda scowls. "That's crap. When are you going to start telling the truth, Niket?"

"I am telling the truth. I invite you both to come to Illium and see for yourselves." He pauses. "I'm sorry, Miranda. I wish it didn't have to be this way." He ends the call.

* * *

Niket's image winks out. Everyone sits in stunned silence for a moment. Miranda tries to collect her thoughts, to come up with a plan. He's sorry? _He's sorry?!_

Rasa whispers something vehemently to Grace, who seems irritated by whatever was said and shakes her head. Samara unfolds her legs and rises. "Whatever you decide, Miranda, I stand ready to assist."

"How fast can we get to Illium?" Oriana asks.

Miranda gives her a sharp look. "Have you been listening to a word I've said? What have I been telling you? Our father can't be trusted. I don't know what he intends for you, and I don't intend to find out."

"But it's my parents, Miri. If he's such a bad person, what will he do to them?"

Miranda frowns. She chose Ori's adoptive parents very carefully, from thousands of candidates. Daniel and Amantha. Amantha couldn't have children of her own. Miranda knows everything about them. They disappeared when Oriana was taken. She assumed they were dead. What if she's wrong? Oriana would never forgive her. Or herself. She brings a hand to her forehead, desperately searching for a solution.

It's Grace who finally offers one. "Niket wants Oriana, right? So let's give him Oriana."

* * *

Her footsteps seem to echo behind her. Shepard sprints down hallways as if in slow motion. The angles are odd. Too sharp here. Too narrow there. They wave. She's drugged. She can't figure how many drugs they've pumped into her system. Everything is hazy and blurry. Everything occurs in bursts of frames.

She wipes at her bleeding nose as she propels herself down twisting hallways, killing the hordes that come at her. Her face runs with sweat. Pop, pop, pop, heads explode, others stagger back, doing spins before collapsing to the ground.

Kenson. She's got to get to Kenson. Kenson's on the intercom. She says Shepard can't stop her. Kenson doesn't know that she's unstoppable. No one can stop her. Especially some indoctrinated English twat. "I'm coming for you, Kenson!" Shepard shouts. The bitch can hear her.

Shepard pushes off the walls. Her head is throbbing. She blasts the Carnifex, flinging herself at the forces that come out her. Her biotics are unstable. She turns a corner and is grabbed by a masked man wielding a flamethrower. He throws her over crates. Gasping, she kicks wildly, snapping his shin. He yowls and she gets to her feet, moving ahead, throwing a stray bullet back. It catches him, if the gurgling is to be believed.

Kenson is sending all the forces after her. The crazy bitch wants the Reapers to come through. No way. No fucking way will she let them win. She'll stop them. There's nothing she won't do. The Project Control room can't be far now. Her chest burns from running, from fighting. She tastes blood and initiates the Project. She tries to warn the colonists but Kenson cuts her off.

She comforts herself; batarians are expendable. She can honor their sacrifice at some other time, after Earth has been saved. Shadowy hallways. Her mouth is dry, her tongue feels like a sock. Kill, kill, kill. It's easy now. Routine now.

She finds Kenson. She doesn't wait for her to turn around. She empties the clip into her. She turns, her face twisting in agony. She's surprised. Maybe Kenson had her figured for somebody else. Shepard stands over her bleeding form. The station is rocking. "The whispers..." Kenson whimpers, "I can't... I can't..."

Shepard points the barrel at her head and pulls the trigger. Blood sprays over the console, over Shepard's hands. She turns and keeps going.

* * *

Niket adjusts his goggles as Miri and Ori enter the abandoned hangar. His men watched them approach on the tarmac, confirming they came alone. The two women stop as soon as they see him. He waits, about ninety feet away, accompanied by six krogan mercenaries. Glax, the oldest and strongest of them stands immediately to his right, cradling an M-300 Claymore shotgun in his arms. At eight and a half feet tall, he's huge, even for a krogan. Niket's never met him before today, but knows his reputation. Brutal, efficient, reliable, doesn't ask questions. He's done work for Henry Lawson on a number of occasions.

Miranda holds an M-3 Predator heavy pistol at her side. It might as well be a starter pistol. She wouldn't be foolish enough to try something with six seasoned, heavily armed krogan at his back. "Where are the parents?" Her voice echoes throughout the cavernous hangar.

Niket points to the smaller of two shuttlecraft. "They're in there. Hand over Oriana, and you can take the shuttle and the parents and go wherever you like. Please, Miranda, nobody needs to get hurt."

"We need to see them first."

Niket shakes his head. "That's not possible."

"Why?"

"Because they think Ori is dead, killed by Cerberus. They believe they're in witness protection."

"Your lies are starting to contradict each other, Niket." She raises her gun.

Niket holds up both palms. "Let me explain. It was necessary to feed them this fiction, for their own protection. If they believe Oriana is alive, they will become a nuisance to your father. Nobody wants that. You'll have to help maintain the illusion. That's part of the deal."

Oriana says something to Miranda, too low for him to hear. They appear to argue for a couple of minutes, until Miranda relents. They hug, and then Oriana turns toward him. "I'm coming over." She raises her hands and begins walking. She strides about halfway to him, and stops. "Now let Miranda get on the shuttle and take my parents out of here."

"I'm sorry, Ori. Not until you've left with us." Beside him, Glax tilts his massive head and takes in a sharp breath of air.

"Stop calling me Ori, you creep. You don't get to call me that anymore. How do I know they're in there? How do I know they're okay?"

"You can trust me, Ori…ana. I only agreed to all this on the condition that nobody got hurt. Your father loves you and wants you to come home."

"Trust you?" she asks, incredulously. "After you lied to me all this time? After you betrayed my sister and took my parents hostage? Are you crazed?" She shakes her head. "This is bullshit. I want to see them. Now." She turns and strides toward the shuttle.

Niket isn't sure, but he thinks her eyes just flashed green. He can't let her get on that shuttle. "Wait!" he yells, stepping forward.

Glax bars his way with an oak-like arm. "STOP!" he rumbles, training his Claymore on Oriana. She halts and faces the krogan, all but ignoring Niket. Somehow, she doesn't look the slightest bit worried that a massive krogan is pointing a giant shotgun at her. She _should_ be terrified. Why isn't she?

"Heh," Glax chuckles. "You almost had me going, pup. But you don't smell right." He nods toward Miranda. "You two aren't even broodmates." _What?_ Glax inhales deeply, tasting the air again. "And you brought someone with you. Another human female. I can't see her, but I can smell her." The other five krogan shift uneasily, casting wary gazes about the hangar.

Oriana's mouth widens, baring her teeth in a strange, carnivorous smile. Something isn't right. There's no mistaking the flash of green in her eyes this time. She flicks her hand, and the massive shotgun wrenches out of Glax's hands, hurtling dozens of feet across the room before landing and sliding on the concrete floor in a shower of sparks.

Niket suddenly finds himself on the ground as Glax shoves him to one side and charges Oriana with a roar. "No! Stop!" Niket yells, but it's too late. Shots begin ringing out. Immediately, one krogan falls dead, a sniper's bullet through one eye and out the back of his head. Miranda fires off a few shots with her Predator, enemy pellets sparking off her shields as she ducks behind some machinery.

It takes but a second for Glax to close the distance to Oriana. The girl has produced a heavy knife. The instant before the krogan is upon her, she throws the knife and whirls, neatly sidestepping his bull rush. The knife strikes home, planting into the ridge above his left eye. Before the krogan realizes what's happened, she scrambles up his back and over his sizable hump. Clinging to the crest of his armor with one hand, she grabs hold of the knife hilt with the other and sharply yanks the blade across his face.

As Glax whirls around, flailing and trying to shake her off, Niket sees sheer, abject terror in his eyes. Suddenly, his cranial plate peels back, exposing the soft tissue beneath. Niket isn't sure whether it's pain or fear that dominates the krogan's shrieking, but he knows he's never heard a sound like that come out of a krogan before. Oriana wrenches the plating to one side and plunges a fist into the krogan's unprotected brain, silencing him in an instant.

The once mighty warlord slumps to the ground, and Oriana tumbles off his corpse and rolls to her feet. The shooting has stopped. Niket looks around and realizes all of the krogan are on the ground. _That fast? How could…_ Wait. One of them is still wheezing. Miranda steps forward, Predator in hand, and dispassionately fires a single shot into the creature's face.

A third woman materializes. He doesn't recognize the dark-haired, dark-skinned woman. She compacts her sniper rifle and clamps it to her back, grimacing at the motion. Oriana looks at her as she shakes krogan brain matter off her hand. "How's the shoulder?" she asks.

"It's fine," the woman replies, gruffly. She nods toward Glax. "That was… new."

Oriana shrugs. "Something Floyd told me about at CAT6. Wasn't sure if it was just one of his bullshit stories until now."

Dimly, Niket realizes warm fluid is running down his leg. Has he been shot? He looks down. It isn't blood. Hot shame flushes over him.

Miranda looks at him in disgust, and points her gun at his head. "Tell me what I'm going to find on that shuttle, Niket."

Oriana studies him. "He doesn't look right. Like he's sick or something. Why is he wearing those goggles?"

"I don't care!" Miranda practically spits the words. She shoves the gun up against his forehead and forces him to kneel. "Answer me!"

He looks down and mumbles a response. "You… don't want to know. I'm so sorry, Miri."

Miranda looks to the other two women. "Watch him!" she orders, before turning and running to the shuttle. She opens the hatch and peers into the shadowy interior. Swearing, she quickly sidesteps the creature that springs out at her. Uttering a deep, raspy howl, the grey-skinned humanoid lands on the concrete and spins clumsily toward her. Before it can take another step, Miranda puts a bullet in its head and it collapses to the floor.

An instant later, a second creature comes through the hatch and launches itself at her. A shot rings out, not Miranda this time, and its head explodes. Miranda glances over. The chocolate-skinned woman keeps her rifle trained on the hatch until Miranda closes it.

Undistracted by the turn of events, Oriana continues to study Niket with narrowed eyes. It isn't really Oriana, but he doesn't know what else to call her.

Miranda examines the two zombified humanoids on the floor. Grey flesh interwoven with blue circuitry. "Husks," she says. "What in the bloody hell are husks doing here?" She looks up at Niket and stares for a long moment, a storm brewing on her face. She stalks toward him. "Tell me those weren't Ori's parents, Niket."

Niket simply stares down at the ground mutely. Miranda once again presses her gun to his head. "Tell me!" she yells.

Oriana gently pushes Miranda's arm away before kneeling to examine his face. She runs a hand roughly down his cheek, then looks at the makeup smeared on her fingers.

"What in the blazes…" Miranda looks mystified. She pulls out a cloth and begins wiping away more makeup from his face, revealing the pale, veiny flesh beneath.

Meanwhile, Oriana reaches for his goggles. "Please, don't," he pleads, though he doesn't know why he feels ashamed. She hesitates, then removes them and steps back.

A flicker of horror passes over Miranda's face, and for a long moment she says nothing. When she speaks, her face is stone and her voice is steady and calm. "What happened to you, Niket?"

"Jesus," the chocolate-skinned woman says, disgustedly. "What the hell do you think happened to him? He's been turned half way into a husk himself. No doubt the doing of your maniac father."

"Shut up, Rasa." Miranda doesn't bother to look at her. "Is it true, Niket? Did my father do all this?"

"Yes," he nods. "He _improved_ me." His tone is earnest, but his faith dwindles by the moment. Somehow, his own words ring hollow in his ears, as Miranda stands before him. Why can't he grasp onto that feeling he once had for her? "He's going to make Oriana better too."

Miranda's face registers nothing. "Earlier, when you called, you used Cerberus protocol. Are you working with them?"

"Yes. The Illusive Man became aware of your father's work and reached out to him."

"Figures," Rasa mutters. "Sounds like Illusive's wet dream. He probably wants to 'improve' everyone who works for him, like your boyfriend here." Miranda scowls at her.

The Oriana pretender suddenly looks alarmed. "Is Cerberus here, Niket?"

He nods again. "I was supposed to lure Miranda and Oriana away, and secure Oriana. Cerberus was after another target. Someone they consider very dangerous." He looks into her eyes. "I saw what you just did. I suppose they're after you, whoever you are."

The woman touches something on her neck, and Oriana's face dissolves, revealing a woman with olive skin and vaguely Slavic features. Blue eyes fade to hazel. She turns to Miranda. "Ori's in danger. We need to go."

Niket looks at Miranda, around the barrel of her gun. She nods once, a shimmer in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Niket. I wish it didn't have to be this way."

* * *

The plan is in place and all that's left is for her and the justicar to wait. Oriana had heard the term before but never dived into the topic. With time to kill she buries herself in the extranet, doing research while the justicar stands, reclining against a pillar, passively observing their surroundings. She has spooky eyes, absent of any emotion. The more she digs into justicars the more it makes sense. They follow the law and execute what justice demands (usually some wrongdoer) without batting an eye. It makes them bad ass, if not terrifying.

This one is stuck babysitting her while Shepard runs around wearing Oriana's face. Her stomach is cramped with worry. She doesn't know if her parents are okay or if Shepard will be okay. This is her mess, isn't it? One Miranda dragged Shepard into. Why did Shepard agree? Maybe she's being a brat by insisting on seeing her parents. She's surprised Miranda agreed to it. Why would someone who kidnapped her care at all?

"Do you think they're okay?" Oriana asks Samara.

"Commander Shepard and Miranda are capable women. They will be fine."

She's a serious woman. Her voice is always even. The revealing, skintight outfit she wears doesn't make sense to Oriana. Aren't they supposed to be serious? And if not, shouldn't she not be showing off her goods? _Don't be so uptight. Maybe next time you see sister dearest you can have the same chat with her._ "How old are you?" she asks. Is she a Matriarch? That makes her eight hundred or so years older than her, at the very least.

Samara arches an eyebrow gently before standing rigidly. Her face doesn't move but her eyes come alive. She inclines her head to the side. _Hide,_ she mouths. Oriana follows her gaze. She has a hundred questions but if the scary justicar wants her to hide, she's not going to argue. She's just about had it with shootouts. She dashes to the intended destination, hiding behind a svelte garbage dumpster (everything's nice in Illium).

Minutes later the soldiers appear, clad in white armor, an orange and black emblem on their chests. They train their guns on Samara. She seems unperturbed. "We're looking for Commander Shepard," the voice comes through their mouthpieces. Oriana's insides go to liquid as she watches the lights blink with their words. "She's believed to be with an asari."

"This is Illium. There are many asari." She takes a step towards them, and then another. "You must also know that Illium does not take kindly to guns being pointed at an asari justicar. You are a human supremacy organization, known around the galaxy for barbaric experiments. I fear the Code may not allow me to let a criminal element such as yourselves leave this place alive. My apologies."

Oriana doesn't know how it happens. An instant she's standing, the next she's sunk to the ground, hunched like a cat ready to strike. Her fingers touch the floor and Oriana feels the violent ripples that course through the ground. The soldiers scream with surprise as they're flung in every direction. Some fall off the bridge altogether. Without reservation, without emotion, she begins to knock off the ones that remain, one by one.

"Pull back!" They yell.

Samara unclips the Vindicator at her back, dodging the bullets that come at her and returning their volleys with clean shots. The bullets hit, a perfect dot between the eyes. There's a chopper overhead. A wide light swings, scanning the area. Oriana sees the red beam of a sniper. She wants to scream out a warning but she has no voice. She's terrified. She pushes more tightly against the wall, trying to make herself as small as possible.

Soldiers are rappelling down, others are rushing the bridge, wielding whips that are flush with biotic energy. Samara sidesteps a swing, catches another lash midair, sending a biotic shock back that leaves the man shrieking. Oriana catches a glimpse of a smile on the woman's face. It makes her look like a far younger woman, a happier one, one enjoying herself.

Static in her ear nearly makes her jump. She and the others are all on the same frequency in case of dire developments. Shepard's voice is on the other end and Oriana wants to sigh with relief.

 _Samara, report. Cerberus may be headed your way. We're coming back but we're still minutes away._

 _They have arrived._ She fights brutally but her voice is unbothered. _The situation is under control._ She ducks as a missile launches towards her, missing her but reducing the soldier at her side to a bloody goo that splashes over her.

 _Is Ori okay?_ Miranda asks, panicked.

 _I swore to watch her. She is safe._

"Did you find Mom and Dad?" Oriana asks.

 _We'll check in once we get back,_ Rasa says. _For now, keep your mouth shut and stay hidden._

She doesn't hear whatever Miranda says back. A sniper blast rings out, making her ears hurt. She looks fearfully at Samara who has a barrier up that makes the hair on her arms and neck stand up on end. The room is flooded with blue light. The bullet freezes and Samara whips it back to the copter. It strikes the fuel tank and ignites it. The helicopter spins in quickening circles before crashing into a nearby wall, sending flames and Cerberus soldiers scattering.

An alarm sounds, coloring everything red. They're going on lockdown again. Great. Oriana's mesmerized, horrified. She can smell fuel and toxic fumes and feel the heat on her skin. She dares a careful glance outward. They may have been looking for Shepard before, but now it seems they're only concern is staying alive. Shielded soldiers begin to trickle out onto the bridge.

Samara pulls the trigger on the Vindicator but it sputters and stops. Empty. She carelessly tosses it aside and runs toward them. The first soldier is lifting his gun when she disappears into thin air, reappears behind him, and snaps his neck. She takes his shield from him, then casts a pull field onto the others, separating them from their shields. Their shots are clumsy and she deflects them easily before detonating the pull field. Their bodies explode, limbs flying in different directions.

All Oriana can hear is ragged, terrified breathing. It doesn't immediately register that it's her. Samara drops the shield and looks in her direction. "It is safe now."

Oriana's fingers are white against the corners of the garbage dumpster. She exits, looking around her wildly. There's blood everywhere. Bodies everywhere. It clogs her every sense. She can taste the iron in the air. Her footsteps are sticky. She pukes off the side of the bridge.

Samara is painted red. She pats her back awkwardly. "There. There."

Oriana laughs nervously, wiping at her mouth. "Holy shit. I'm glad you're on our side."

The others rush in with the timing of cops in an action film, arriving just after the danger has passed. Shepard goes to Oriana, fingers brushing her hair, looking at her. "You okay?" Oriana nods. She looks at Samara. "Good work."

Samara nods her head dutifully, her expression having returned to the blandness of before. "Thank you, Commander."

Oriana looks at them, around them, but doesn't see her parents. She fixes her gaze on Miranda. "Where are they?"

* * *

The galaxy map blinks, reconstructing the Bahak system into nothingness. Aratoht and anything else in Bahak is no more. Three hundred thousand lives gone. Shepard pulls the helmet from her head and goes dizzy. EDI makes inquiries that Shepard ignores.

"I need to get to Chakwas." She makes it onto the elevator, stepping out onto the third floor before remembering that there is no Chakwas. There is no Kelly. There is no Donnelly and Daniels. The crew is dead. Only Joker and EDI remain. She swallows the bile threatening to come up. She's sweaty and cold.

She crashes into one of the mess hall chairs. Gloved hands come to her hair, fingers burying into her skull. She breathes raggedly. Where's Miranda? Where's Morinth? Why aren't they back? She pulls up Miranda's channel on her omni-tool and types out a hasty message: _I need a sitrep, now._

She waits several minutes and gets nothing. Eventually she forces herself to her feet. Her breath reverberates. Vertigo sinks its claws into her. She makes it to the med-bay. Chakwas is gone. There is no imminent matter to attend to at the moment. Her eyes burn furiously. How could she have forgotten Chakwas was gone? She discovers an empty bottle of Serrice Ice Brandy having rolled onto a corner beneath the desk. Shepard grabs the bottle and sets it on the desk.

She logs onto her email from Chakwas' computer. No email from Liara. Her fingers curl. What did she expect? Some kind of commitment? _She's an asari. You're nothing but a dog to her._ Not even. Dogs can live a fifth as long as a human. She'd have to be something more insignificant to truly compare her lifespan to an asari.

Everything's spinning. She clings to a cot and pulls herself onto it. Her leg hangs off but exhaustion races to take her. She doesn't have the energy to move. Harbinger's voice pierces her thoughts. _You fight against inevitability. Dust struggling against cosmic winds. Your time will come. You cannot stop me. Your copies cannot stop me. Your species will end in ashes._

She falls into hazy dreams. Catacombs fill her consciousness, black and laced with sticky cobwebs. She doesn't know how long she sleeps. The med-bay door hisses open and she jumps to a start, disoriented. Her stomach clenches painfully. She's starving. Sliding off the cot she tries to ground herself when she sees Admiral Hackett. _Another dream?_

"Commander Shepard. Awake and in one piece."

She'd recognize his gravelly voice anywhere. This is no dream. She wipes at her face, hoping to get any last traces of sleep, blood and possibly drool off her face. She stands straight and salutes sharply. "Sir. It's an honor." The words come to her out of habit. Retrieving Kenson isn't something she would have done had the Illusive Man not insisted. The Alliance gave her up for dead, practically branded her a terrorist for working with Cerberus. They refused to help but keep coming to her for favors.

He nods curtly. "I could say the same thing, Commander." He appraises her curiously. "You know why I'm here." Shepard stares at him and begs to understand. "What the hell happened in the Bahak system?" Everything comes flooding back to her. "I send you on a covert operation to rescue Dr. Kenson. Two days after you've infiltrated Aratoht the entire system is gone. I want answers, Shepard."

"You're a busy man, Admiral. I won't waste your time." Nor does she want him wasting hers. "Kenson was working on a Reaper artifact. It indoctrinated her and the entire team working under her. They determined that the Reapers were going to be coming through the mass relay in two days time. Kenson was thinking of them as... saviors, something. I had to stop her. I had to stop them. And I did."

"You're telling me you blew up a mass relay and wiped out an entire star system to stop the Reapers?"

"Yes." She curls her fingers. "I did what I had to do. I did what no one else would have the guts to. I make no apologies." She clenches her jaw and glares at him. Hackett looks back at her warily. "I'm the only reason the Reapers aren't crawling up our ass right now. It's too bad about the batarians," she says with a shrug, "but I'm not going to cry over a slaver race that's never made it a point to make nice with humans."

"You're letting what happened on Torfan get the better of you," Hackett steps closer, "and you damn well make sure never to speak of it so lightly outside of this space either. The batarians are itching to start a war and you're giving them plenty of ammunition." He crosses his arms. "This is bad, Shepard."

"I did what I had to do," she repeats.

"Do you understand the kind of diplomatic uproar this could cause?" He asks. Shepard does. She isn't sure she cares. "This isn't something I can bury. You can't hide the extinguishing of an entire star system." He wipes at his face, shakes his head.

Shepard wonders if she's disappointed him. She did what she had to do. She did the right thing. Why can't he understand that? "You came to me because I get results no matter the cost. I do the heavy lifting. You smooth things over."

"Are you giving me orders, Commander?" Hackett's voice raises. Shepard keeps quiet. He takes a breath. "Do you have a report?"

"Haven't had time. You have my word. I can type one up, if that's what you need to control this."

"There's nothing that will get this situation under control. The batarians may start a war. If they do, the other races will be forced to take a side. If they choose not to start a war, we still have the Reapers to contend with. We have to do some damage control. You'll need to go to Earth. Put your dress blues on, _pretend,_ like you're not insubordinate."

"I rescue the galaxy's ass from the Reapers and you want me to turn myself in to be arrested? To appease the Batarians? Forget it, Admiral!"

"Commander Shepard—" He raises a hand. Shepard scowls, bites her tongue. "You've done a hell of a thing. You stopped the Collectors and managed to stop the Reapers from swarming us. But don't forget that you're a member of the Alliance. If we need you to be the scapegoat for this, for the sake of intergalactic diplomacy, you'll do it and you'll do it without complaining. Are we clear?" Shepard says nothing. "I'll do what I can but I won't be able to stall forever. You go AWOL we'll drag you in kicking and screaming. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," she says through gritted teeth.

"Good. Write up your report and forward it to me as soon as possible. If this is the way you want to play it, I'm going to need everything I can to hold them back. Make nice when you type up the report. Any slip about your true feelings on batarians and it won't just be the Alliance after you."

He leaves. Shepard goes to Chakwas' computer terminal. She's been asleep for days. No messages from Liara. No messages from Miranda. She clenches her fist and puts it through the computer screen. After everything she's done, everyone's turned against her. She begins to unlatch her armor, yanking at pieces she wears and letting them fall to the floor. The tanktop she wears is sweaty and sticks to her. She curls her fingers tightly and closes her eyes. She's in this alone. She's going to need every advantage she can get. The Illusive Man offered her a gift. She thinks it's time to take him up on it.

* * *

Grace mentally counts off all the birds she sees in the sky: wirras, aleopites, diandropodes, harkas. She likes the wirra, especially for its peculiar orange proboscis that unfurls to scrounge insect hives. They've left Samara's bloodbath behind. The asari appears particularly striking since the incident. She does not boast but there is an energy that emanates from her. Grace finds her gaze turning in her direction. Samara is looking her way every time.

Miranda paces in front of Oriana some distance away. Oriana sits on a bench. Hope leans into a railing, watching the colors bleed into the sky. Grace faces the opposite direction, hoping Oriana takes the news well. Hope has insisted they leave right away but Grace has reservations. Lawson and Cerberus have sent countless men after her and Oriana. This is unlikely to be the last wave. She has no attachment to Miranda but feels some sympathy for Oriana. She's been introduced to so much bloodshed in so little time. _Remind you of someone you know?_ It isn't the same. Oriana is nineteen years old and she's... Grace tries to remember. Thirty-two? She's thirty-two. But she can only remember the past year.

"How's your shoulder?" Grace asks.

"Stop asking." Hope rolls it unconsciously, her fingers pressing into it. The Viper hangs at her back. She's one hell of a shot. It's surprising to see her working on behalf of someone else. Surprising but satisfying. Maybe Hope's something more than she pretends to be. Do Samara and Miranda know who Grace is? Why haven't they said anything? Don't they know she's an imposter? She glances cautiously at Samara again. "Stop looking at her. I told you not to trust her."

"You have to trust some people. A justicar seems a good start."

"You can practically smell the blood coming off her."

"She did just take a bath in it."

Hope's brow furrows. "You're naive. Use more than just your eyes." She sighs and sinks her head, as if exhausted of her. Stretching, she grips the railing before straightening. "I haven't eaten in over a day and I'm starving. I'm going to the shop. Want me to pick something up for you?'

Grace smiles. "Yeah, sure."

Hope nods. She jabs a finger into Grace's chest. "Keep. Away. From. The. Justicar. _And Lawson._ "

Grace grabs her hand but Hope slips away easily. The heat of Hope's hand lingers against her flesh. Grace curls her fingers, trying to hold onto it. The next instant she looks up, Samara is there. The asari has discarded the armor (if it could be called that) she wore before, trading in the skintight, shimmering latex for the black leather of a huntress. The change of clothing is likely temporary, the other suit drying in the shuttle. The pure black of the leather makes the light in her eyes stand out even more. She keeps the simple adorning golden headpiece. She's close. "Poor girl," Samara comments, looking at Oriana and Miranda. Her voice is soft, calming like a lullaby. "Her entire life is a fabrication. And now, all that is left for her is a woman that scorns emotion."

"Maybe Miranda has other good qualities," Grace offers but she can't be sure. She doesn't know her. She's Cerberus. It's her goons that are hunting her down, her childhood friend that betrayed her and Oriana, her boss that's creating problems with everyone. Does Miranda know Kai Leng? Does she know that he tried to kill Hope? _Why did he try to kill Hope?_ Maybe they hunt down deserters. "She's trying. That counts for something." She looks at her. It's hard to meet her searching eyes. "What's it like to be a justicar?"

"It is... rewarding. I stamp out injustice when I see it. I protect the innocent. Goodness is my Code. I must ensure that good always triumphs over evil."

Grace thinks that Hope would laugh at her. Some part of Grace thinks that Samara laughs at it too. Her eyes are dancing, despite the sincerity of her tone. "You killed a lot of people today."

"For justice." Grace has difficulty looking away. It's only the eruption of Oriana's voice that gets her attention. Miranda tries to get close to Oriana but the girl shouts at her to get away. "Perhaps you should attend to the girl," Samara suggests.

"What can I do?"

"You could 'try'?" She smiles. "Did you not praise the very act moments ago?"

Grace reluctantly leaves the railing and moves toward the sisters. What can she offer? She's never had a friend. She isn't sure Hope qualifies. Hope has taught her to staunch her emotions, to kill them. Be cynical, logical, critical. What does she know about comfort? Has she ever been able to comfort anyone? She slides her hands into her pockets and moves closer. Miranda's face is tense, her chin not quite steady. "What do you want?" she snaps.

 _For you to stop being a bitch._ "To sit with her for a minute. You can tag out for now." Miranda glares at the sky. "I know none of this is ideal. I don't want to be here with you either but like it or not we're stuck together for the time being. We might as well try to get along." She doesn't wait for an answer, simply moves ahead and takes a seat next to Oriana who's huddled over, face buried in her hands. Miranda watches them and stalks off.

"Go away," Oriana blathers.

"I will soon, I promise." Grace looks at the girl. She's so different from her sister. Inquisitive, outgoing, friendly, funny. Is it nature or nurture that makes a person who they are? She's not sure. She touches Oriana's shoulder. Oriana stiffens before relaxing. Grace rubs her back for a minute. Hope has done this to her in the past when she's been upset. It's helped. "I'm sorry for what happened." Oriana pulls more tightly into herself. "It must be hard. I can't tell you how long it takes for this kind of pain to go away." She doesn't know.

"Are your parents still alive?" She lifts her head long enough to look at her face. Oriana's eyes are red, glistening, her cheeks stained with tears. She tries to breathe. "I told myself to just pretend they were dead. I thought I had accepted that but—" she starts to cry again.

Grace doesn't know what to say. "I don't know if my parents are still alive," she says to her. "I don't know anything about them. I have... memories... fuzzy memories." Oriana looks at her quizzically. "Uh—I mean, Hannah Shepard. She's still alive." Shit. _Shit._

"You're a horrible liar."

"I'm not lying," Grace says quickly.

She takes a few more heaping breaths, wiping at her face. Grace pats her shoulder again. Samara has disappeared from where she was. Miranda and Hope appear to be in some kind of heated conversation. Hope's holding two bottles of water. She doesn't know who her family is. Maybe Hope is her family. Oriana looks at her blearily. "You don't know who you really are, do you?" Grace's mouth goes dry. "Who are you? You're not Commander Shepard." She sits up straighter, her eyes going dry, excitement moving through her. "I've managed to hack Miranda's omni-tool. She's been so busy fussing over me and Rasa that she didn't pick up on it. I'm kind of a gadget whiz," she says quickly. "A day or so ago Shepard sent her a message wanting to know where she was. You're not Shepard." The first time she said it, it was a question. The second time she says it, it's a revelation. Grace slides away from her and stands.

"I'm leaving."

"No!" Oriana grabs her hand. Grace considers ripping free of her. Her face is hot. Oriana knows she's a fake. It makes her violently ill. "I looked up Shepard's history. She's an only child. So maybe you're a lookalike but that doesn't make any sense either." Grace pulls her hand away and walks away from her. "But you're identical to her. You're just as powerful. You _are_ her."

"I'm Grace Morgan!" she shouts back at her. This again. This again. Always this again. The Shepard junior jokes, always, someone wanting her to be somebody else. She can't think straight. She only remembers now that she should be convincing Oriana that she's Jane Shepard, not Grace Morgan. Hope will be furious. She's furious at herself. She can't hold it together. She can't breathe. "I'm glad you're feeling better," she says to her.

"So you're not her twin," Oriana theorizes out loud, "you're not a sister or a cousin. Shepard has no cousins. You're not even a lookalike." Her voice pitches in excitement, it goes faster, "if Cerberus is after you—Cerberus conducts all kinds of unethical experiments. Experiments that cross the line. Why would they be after you? Shepard died. They said Shepard died but she came back. I wonder how long it took. I wonder what the process was behind it. Maybe if they had enough genetic material... If Shepard is contacting Miranda Lawson from another terminal—but you're right here and they're chasing you… Clone!" she shouts out, jubilant at the revelation. "You're a clone."

Grace stops.

Miranda and Hope stop.

A clone? No. She looks back at Oriana who's gone from exuberant to crestfallen. Oriana's gaze turns toward Miranda and she takes a step back. A clone. No. How could it be true? It can't be true. She's... There must be something... something she can think of that can make it not true. Hope and Miranda move towards them. Oriana turns and runs. Grace is still. Everything moves in slow motion. Every sound is amplified. She hears the squawk of the birds overhead, deafening in her ears. Miranda Lawson moves towards her. Miranda Lawson is Cerberus.

Has she been leading the troops against her? Is it true? Is it true? Miranda goes racing past her but Grace hooks into her biotically. Grace grabs her by the front of her uniform, pressing an omni-blade to her neck, cutting, before she knows it. A thin trickle of blood trickles down Miranda's neck, stark against her pale skin. "Is it true?" She isn't sure she's said the words. Her face and mouth tingle like white noise. She flexes her lips and tongue and isn't sure if she's moved them. Miranda reaches for her gun but Hope takes it, points it at the base of Miranda's skull.

"Let her go, Grace."

"What makes you think any slack I cut her will extend to you?" Grace asks. Her voice is raspy. She can't see straight. "Is it true?" she asks. Miranda's nose flares. "Did you make me? Was I made? Am I a thing?"

Hope grits her jaw. "Let her go," she says again.

"You were made," Miranda says tightly, "not by me. You're not the real Shepard. You were just the spare parts. Not worth my time."

Time stands still. Her legs lose all feeling. Miranda wrenches loose, slams an elbow into Grace's face and chases after Oriana, the gun forgotten. Hope keeps the gun poised on Grace. Grace's breath is spilling out of her, leaving her empty and light, dizzy. She hears a scratchy sound in the air. She takes one step towards Hope and then another one. Everything still seems much too slow. "This isn't how you were supposed to find out. Damn it, Grace, I've been trying to tell you for weeks."

"Weeks?" She's been asking for a year. She wheezes. "I'm a thing?"

"No," Hope's fingers tremble around the Predator she holds. She fights to keep her voice even. "You're Shepard."

"I'm not Shepard!"

"You're Grace!" Hope takes another step back. "Please, Grace. Just listen."

"No." The omni-blade that had retracted springs up again. She feels a distant throb in her face where Miranda's elbow pounded into it. "I was only ever a copy to you. You've lied to me from the beginning. You knew all along. Are there more of me?" Hope steels her jaw. Oh, Jesus. "Put the gun down."

"No."

Grace flings the gun away from Hope, who screams as her finger snaps. Grace launches forward, coiled in a tangle of biotic energy, her fingers squeezing around Hope's throat. She throws her to the ground, a knee buried in her stomach, the omni-blade raised high. Hope only gasps as the air goes out of her. "I was only a tool to you. A weapon to you." She doesn't see Hope clearly. She's blurry behind the heat in her eyes. "I should kill you. You wanted me like this. You wanted a monster. How could you do this? Why would you do this?"

"Grace. Please." She reaches out. Grace thrusts the omni-blade, burying it deep in the shoulder that was just recovering. Hope screams but Grace isn't moved. She feels nothing as she yanks it out savagely. All feeling has left her, all emotion, all compassion. Blood spurts out, splashing hot in Grace's face. She only sees red.

Grace stands and leaves her. Everything is spinning. She can't see. She can't think. She can't hear. Nothing save for the birds overhead cawing, cawing, inside her head. A thing. A thing. She's a thing. Spare parts. Nothing. She's nothing. She makes it to the shuttle, legs unsteady, numb and lost. Samara's hand extends from the shuttle, fingers wrapping around her forearm and pulling her inside.


	20. Birthday

The candles flicker in the darkness. An array of stars dim and pulse along the walls and ceiling of the domed room. The Illusive Man lies on the massage table, arms at his sides as Gwendolyn's dexterous hands expertly knead his lower back, rubbing against oiled skin. This is a diversion, but a necessary one. The stresses of his position are severe, taxing even his considerable patience.

The Omega-4 operation is proceeding smoothly for the moment. Commander Shepard has come to heel, but problems have popped up in other areas. All leads on Paul Grayson have proven to be dead ends. It seems Cerberus trained him too well. Meanwhile, Rasa and X8 have become full-blown vectors that he must continually plan around. The platoon he sent to Illium to recover X8 was wiped out. The krogan mercenaries failed to recover Oriana Lawson, and Henry's trusted assistant became a casualty. Compounding matters, a valuable Cerberus research station known as "the Barn" was sabotaged hours ago. Everything was lost, and he finds himself contending with yet another runaway operative.

Strong fingers locate his knotted latissimus dorsi muscles and begin squeezing, pressing, coaxing. The masseuse is deaf. No matter. Small talk is for small minds. He breathes out stress. Gwendolyn is a sorceress.

Kai Leng's image manifests over a small holo-pad, its glow clashing with the ambience of the room. Leng is impassive, utterly unmoved by sentiment. The Illusive Man values that about him. It makes him clearheaded and practical, but being passionless has drawbacks too.

"You wanted to see me." Leng crosses his arms.

"I've received reports from the Phoenix facility." Kai Leng has always gone out of his way to please him. He'd like to keep Leng 'happy' but he needs answers. "You damaged the Nemesis unit. Walk me through your process."

Leng scoffs. "The blonde is decent in the field but a distraction off it. The soldiers won't stop gawking at her. X3's breaking protocol because of her. She's asking questions. She's defiant." Leng waits. "I thought the whole point of this child-rearing exercise was for her to be compliant."

"Children rebel, Leng. What other measures did you consider?"

"Termination. To show X3 and the others how Cerberus deals with insubordination."

Troubling. The Illusive Man ponders for a moment. "I asked you to oversee the day to day operations of the Phoenix facility for a reason. I trust your judgment, but remember this. These individuals come to us, eager to serve humanity, often leaving their old lives behind. Cerberus is their family. X3 may not have come to us in the usual way, but she is not so different. If her loyalty is wavering, it's because she needs something that we are not providing. Rather than damaging valuable assets, you should consider finding a way to satisfy that need." Leng is a cold man, joyless and without sympathy, but not unintelligent.

"We're rewarding failure and discord now?"

"I don't see it that way." The muscles in his back and neck sing as Gwendolyn continues her ministrations. "X3 has more value to us than ever. Miranda interfered with our efforts on Thessia. X8 was within our grasp, but has once again slipped away. You understand the threat she poses to Cerberus and our mission. The parameters have changed. X8 has proven too problematic for reintegration, and Miranda has outlived her usefulness. It's time to contain the situation."

Leng stands straighter at the news, his mouth curling in a slight smile. The man became a killer at a young age. His propensity for killing served him well when he joined the Alliance. It made him a standout in the N7 program until he got himself thrown in prison. There is something very human, Illusive thinks, about wanting to end life, no matter how flawed. "And the girl? Lawson's clone?"

"Last sighted with Miranda and Rasa." The two of them are working together now. It's not an outcome he would have predicted. "If Oriana can be apprehended, do so. She still holds considerable sentimental value for Henry Lawson. Oriana may be critical to keeping him satisfied. I cannot overstate the value of our new partnership with him. His work is revolutionary. Together we will usher forward a new era for Cerberus. Our soldiers will be unmatched, and his research may have ramifications beyond that."

"More coddling," he complains.

Leng is not customarily so impertinent. Clearly he is frustrated. "Not every problem is best solved with a hammer, Leng. Sometimes a drop of honey is called for. It's past time you learned that."

The advice only seems to heighten Leng's contempt. "Understood. Coddle X3. Coddle the blonde. Coddle Henry Lawson."

"Yes." Illusive tires of the conversation. He'll pacify Leng by giving him the thing he needs. "There's something else. Randall Ezno broke ranks and destroyed the Barn. He's headed for Omega. He knows too much. Find him and terminate him, but do so quietly. Omega is a valuable staging area for our operation beyond the Omega-4 relay. It is paramount that we maintain our business relationship with Aria for the time being. See to it that you do not upset the balance."

"Ezno has turned against us?"

"Yes. Do not take him lightly. He has been heavily enhanced."

Leng nods. "I'll take care of it," he says before his hologram blips out.

Illusive rolls onto his back. The light of the candles lends a lovely incandescence to Gwendolyn's auburn hair. She smiles coyly as she hands him a cigar, then lights it as he puffs. Moments later, the towel slips away from his waist and crumples to the floor. Capable hands dig into his thighs, sliding upward before gripping him. He closes his eyes and allows his body to respond while his mind continues to race. There have been setbacks, but they are outweighed by the successes. The risks can be managed. He exhales a slow, controlled breath, threads of pungent smoke swirling around him.

* * *

The shuttle moves on auto-pilot. Morinth has never been opposed to drifting. Drifting leads to interesting places, to unforeseen adventures. Her mother was the opposite. She always had a destination in mind, some boring goal to accomplish. She chose the Code over life, over family. Her mother thought Morinth was only a disease to be purged. And now she's dead. Serves her right. Morinth won't follow in her footsteps.

Morinth studies Grace. Shepard sent Morinth to watch over Miranda but Miranda is a nuisance and Morinth has long since paid her debt. Not only that, Shepard has exhausted her usefulness. Morinth would prefer to spend her time with this copy. So much anger and darkness swirling inside of her, trying desperately to be contained. It washes over Morinth, hot and delicious. She remembers when Shepard had that fire.

Grace breathes quickly, taking sharp, shallow breaths. Her face and arms are soaked in blood. Morinth saw the scene from the shuttle. Grace attacked her companion. Rasa. Morinth knows a liar when she sees one. Grace fawned over the woman minutes before attacking her. Grace is unpredictable, dangerous. Morinth hasn't changed back into her mother's clothing but she picks up the black glove, still wet, and slides it along Grace's face, wiping some of the blood away.

"Why are you here?" Grace's eyes remain green, her voice shaking. She lashes out, takes Morinth's arm fiercely. For a moment, Morinth thinks she'll snap it. Grace pins her to the floor. "You're working for Cerberus. You're working for Miranda. I should kill you."

"No. Shepard—"

"Stop! Stop! Stop! I know you're lying! I know you know what I am!" Spittle hits Morinth's face, warm in the cold shuttle. "Did you laugh at me? Did you all laugh at me?"

Morinth is still. Dark biotic energy spills from Grace, gnashing and turning, prodding her. Morinth wants to taste her, take her, suck her dry but she is still so young and full of potential. Her power will only grow. It would be a waste to take her now. Poor clone, suffering through an existential crisis. "I only aided Cerberus so long as they opposed the Collectors. I gave myself to Shepard. I pledged myself to her under the Third Oath of Subsumation. It was the only way I could follow her orders." Grace's fingers crawl to Morinth's throat, her eyes still blazing. "She abused my oath. She forced me to..." She makes herself take a long pause. "She is... unjust. I could help you find them. The ones who... created you. I could help you find Shepard... if that is your wish."

Grace stares furiously down at her. Morinth wonders if she'll be quick enough to stop her if Grace decides to snap her neck instead. She is struck by how her position mirrors that of her mother in her final moments. Shepard was battered at the time. Grace is just as bloody, though the blood is not her own. Morinth waits for her to strike. Instead, Grace brings a hand to her face and begins to cry. Morinth narrows her eyes gently as the hot tears fall to her face. Yes. As she suspected. Unpredictable.

* * *

They've settled into a hotel room in some city on some planet that Samara suggested. Grace was barely listening. She feels like she's on the run again, as she has been for the majority of her existence. Except now she's with a justicar instead of a lying sociopath. The room is small, high up in a needle-like building that juts into the sky. Lightning crackles through the clouds, momentarily chasing away the pitch black of night. Grace's eyes are raw and red from crying. They keep the lights dim.

Samara holds up the skintight oily black outfit. "A justicar may not dress as a huntress. However, if you prefer my old uniform I may be willing to trade for yours."

Grace flicks her gaze to Samara. The justicar often makes statements that would be regarded as a joke coming from anyone else. Grace pulls off the black and grey glove she wears, removing the armguard and rolling up the camouflaged sleeve of the CAT6 armor. "It's all yours."

It's arduous keeping her voice steady. She hasn't slept since she found out who she is—what she is. She was Hope's – Rasa's – whoever the hell's toy. Some Cerberus scientific abomination gone wrong, to be used for whatever political scheme she had in mind. Kill Shepard, Hope said. Become Shepard. She's a disgusting secret. So many measures intended to keep her identity hidden. It's no wonder the woman fought so bitterly with her to keep her from choosing a name. She isn't allowed her own identity. Not now. Not ever. Her fingers curl. She unclenches her jaw and pulls out the knife strapped to her thigh.

"Tell me about Shepard," she tells Samara.

Samara turns, pausing in the midst of pulling off the huntress leathers. Grace sees a flash of pale blue skin along her back. Their eyes connect before Samara lowers hers demurely. "Forgive me, Comma— Grace. I am accustomed to a solitary life. I'm afraid I have not yet grown used to being in the company of others." She moves around the corner, out of sight. Grace sees a black sleeve of the huntress uniform slip around the corner before being shed. "What would you like to know?"

"What's she like?"

Samara's voice floats from the corner. "Commander Shepard is... a severe woman. A vile woman. You may recall that she abused my Oath." Samara's voice is remarkably steady given her opinion of the woman.

Grace frowns, taking the knife sharpener to the edge of the knife. Scrape, scrape, scrape. "What kind of oath is it?"

"It is the most sacred oath a justicar can make to another individual. It relinquishes my moral code. I pledge my loyalty to her, no matter the cost. I would not have been able to successfully aid her on the Collector mission otherwise. Her morals, her wishes and directives supplant everything I stand for, should she desire it. As you might imagine, it puts me in a very compromising situation, to become subservient to another. And she did. Put me in a very compromising situation."

Her stomach turns. Disgusting. She came from the DNA stock of that woman? Is she like her? Will she become more like her the longer she lives? Is it nature? Is it nurture? Hope raised her. Trained her. But what is Hope but a liar? A manipulator. Sometimes she was kind to her. Why? To keep her in line? _That's the most likely scenario._

She realizes that Shepard died nearly three years ago. She only recalls her existence for the last year. Is that how old she is? One? She's lightheaded and stabs the knife into the edge of the table, holding herself steady. Samara is speaking personally of the injustice she suffered. _Get your shit together and think of someone else for a change._ "You're all right?" she asks gruffly.

"I am a justicar. I am incapable of feeling deeply for anything outside of my duty. However..." she clears her throat. "Such a violation is not allowed to stand. I promised I would end her once the matter with the Collectors was resolved. She asked that I assist Miranda in recovering her sister. I thought the greater good should prevail and that her existence should be allowed for a while longer." She exits from around the corner, dressed once more in her usual justicar regalia.

Grace remembers the Collectors. They cut down her entire squad in a matter of seconds. That... thing that talked to her, that voice she heard, taunting her. It was confused. It thought she was Shepard. She's not Shepard. She won't be Shepard. "And the Collector mission?"

"Successful. I survived, along with a few others. We lost the entire crew except for the pilot. Four squad members perished." She approaches Grace cautiously. Grace dislodges the knife and takes hold of it again. "Are you well, Grace? The revelation must have come as a shock. I would not want you to do anything... irrational."

Grace grits her jaw. She knows where the tracking device is. Months ago, she paid some salarian doctor to scan her, to locate it. "Hope, Rasa, that _bitch_ , will hunt me down. She's spent a lot of credits on me. She won't let me go. Not her precious investment." Samara tilts her head cautiously. "I'm not going to let her find me. Not before I burn Cerberus to the ground."

"They will try to stop you."

"They can try." She puts the blade of the knife along the inside of her forearm, digging in and cutting a small path open. Blood bubbles to the surface. Red. She looks human. She feels human. The pain is negligible. She allows herself to feel it, to take the burning sensation and pretend for a moment that it marks her as something real, as something more than a copy. She sets the knife aside and digs into her flesh, her fingers burying into muscle matter until she finds what she's looking for. It's no bigger than a grain of rice. She was tracked, has been tracked for months, like property, merchandise, cattle.

Biotic energy centers on it until it bursts. Blood runs down the edge of the kitchen table, covers her arm like a glove. Samara's eyes are dark, fixated on her. Eventually she turns away, sitting to meditate.

"Don't get too comfortable," Grace tells her. "We head to Hagalaz in a few hours." Wherever the hell that is. It was Samara's suggestion. She said the "new" Shadow Broker might have the answers they need. Great. Another asshole to beg favors off of. She isn't looking forward to it.

"Of course."

Grace stares at her arm, the mess of tissue, blood, ripped flesh and bone. She takes the medi-gel packet that sits next to her and rips it open with her teeth. She makes her hand into a fist and watches the blood pump more vigorously. A fake. She's a fake. She wasn't even born. What must people think of those who weren't born? What must it be like to be born? To have parents? To have family? She'll never know.

She wonders if she can die. Shouldn't she have died a hundred times over? There must be something wrong with her. She's not even a person.

She grips the medi-gel packet onto her arm, slathering it over her wound with the flat of the knife. Blood and medi-gel mingle. Her arm is on fire. Threads of muscle and flesh wriggle towards each other, wormlike, before the gel settles, translucent. Soon there won't be a scar. It's not right. Not normal. What's she keeping her arm intact for? In case Shepard needs it? She's alive for that piece of garbage? She only exists because of that piece of garbage.

She'll find the Cerberus labs and destroy them. She'll kill anyone who gets in her way. She'll find Shepard and kill her. Then she'll be free.

* * *

The little asari bitch got herself a nice ship. Morinth laments Shepard's cowardice. If only Shepard had let Morinth come the first time, she might have had a succulent feeding. Joria was a treat but soon the high begins to wear off. She becomes antsy and the hunt must begin again.

The human who piloted the mining freighter to the Sowilo System is a weakling. Putting him under her thrall was trivially easy, an unsatisfying but necessary exercise. It is inordinately difficult and expensive to book passage to Hagalaz.

The wind lashes them violently. It's hard to take steady paces, climb the slope of the ship and keep her fucking clothes on. _I really hate everything about you, Mother._ "This way," she tells the clone. She doesn't know which way she's going. She hasn't visited the ship and Shepard was starry-eyed after the mission. Did she and Liara reconcile and physically express their affections? Disgusting.

Not that she doesn't see the appeal. She used to hunger for it. The touch of a lover. She thinks of the husk she left behind the first time she was foolish enough to think she was a normal girl. There was one after that and then another. Then, she thought, she needed to find someone strong enough. She was wrong then, too, but the pleasure that filled her was unlike anything she had ever known. Her mother looked at her with those big, sad eyes. Her mother once felt something. What killed her emotions? Was it having a monster for a daughter? _You are a disease to be purged and nothing more._

Morinth keeps her face blank. It's rarely difficult to keep the mask on. Sometimes, when she thinks of that creature that birthed her, it is more so. A crack of lightning flashes, blinding and hot, striking one of the lightning rods several feet away. Morinth's spirits soar. She can respect that kind of blind, destructive power.

Grace follows behind her, strangely solemn. _Where are your speeches, Shepard? Where are your tirades on justice?_ It isn't Shepard, not really. Not that the thing on the _Normandy_ is. What broke her? Dying? Being spurned by Liara? The aura around her was dark and weak. Grace's burns bright and strong. Maybe she's the real Shepard and this is all a big joke. She smiles at that. Imposters pretending to be imposters.

A pair of drones meander toward them. "What's this?" Grace asks. A spark of lightning sates her curiosity. Shields shattered, she wraps the drone in biotic energy and hurls it into a wall. Morinth shoots the other one. It begins to hail. The two slip into cover as ice pellets pummel down around them. "What's your big plan for getting us in there, Samara? I want to hear something before we're knocked off the damn ship."

 _I don't know._ "Do not worry. The Shadow Broker will know we are here. I do not anticipate any difficulties with gaining entry."

No sooner are the words spoken than a deep voice booms across the ship. "Enter, Justicar."

There's a whirring of gears, and they ascend another steely slope. They find an open hatch and slip into the dark, cavernous interior. Morinth has instructed Grace to let her do the speaking. She isn't sure what terms Shepard and Liara parted on but she's fairly sure they weren't amicable. Shepard would have hesitated to give herself to Liara. She thinks of her 'time' with Shepard. No mind meld. Not real sex. Shepard's violence was exciting but without joining their minds it felt incomplete. It wasn't like it is with those who fully give themselves to her. The ecstasy that fills her is untouchable. But either way, either manner of coupling, the act is never fully complete and there is always some part of her left unsatisfied. "Holster your weapon," she tells Grace. Grace's face is helmeted, but she looks at her long and hard. She imagines the clone's hazel eyes flashing green in that peculiar way that they do. "Holster it. We are all friends here."

Grace glares at her another moment before clamping the weapon to her back. Morinth leads the way. Big ship. Lots of guards. She hopes something happens, something that would necessitate them having to kill their way out of here. Grace appraises the surroundings carefully, clearly unhappy to have her weapon put away when there are so many soldiers with their weapons drawn.

Eventually they reach the lair. The term amuses Morinth. She notices the walls of monitors, countless projections on screens, events, lives, timelines, unfolding with every passing moment, each second recorded. The Shadow Broker stands with her back to them, the light of grainy footage cascading over her, making her white suit glow and her pale blue skin appear as pale as Morinth's own. She turns, and Grace stiffens. _Surprise!_

"Samara," Liara announces flatly. "This is an unexpected visit." Unwelcome too, Morinth would wager. Then again, who'd welcome her mother's company? Those with a death wish. "And you travel with a guest." Her gaze fixes on Grace. On second thought, maybe she should have made the clone wait in the shuttle like a good girl. "Normally I would not question a justicar."

 _But this one has slept with your Shepard._ Morinth is formulating a less antagonistic response when Grace pulls the helmet off her head, chocolate wavy hair shaking loose to her shoulders. Morinth keeps her face tranquil and waits for the fireworks. Liara flinches in a way that puzzles her. Maybe it's only Grace's eyes, defiant and challenging. She's looked that way since they left the others. They focus on Samara, more demanding than before. A pleasant surprise? An unpleasant one? She doesn't know.

"Shepard..." Liara takes a step back, looks away from Grace. This time, Grace is the one to flinch. "What are you doing here?" She looks her armor over but her eyes skirt back to her face.

"You will forgive me, Dr. T'Soni," Morinth keeps her voice as still as her mother's, "but I have asked Commander Shepard to assist me in tracking down a Cerberus facility."

"That's... vague," Liara says. She looks between the two of them. Suspiciously? Jealously? It takes everything Morinth has not to smile. "And as you may know, the Shadow Broker does not simply give out information."

"You would charge a justicar, seeking to right the many wrongs Cerberus has committed?" She takes a meaningful pause. There is no hesitation or apology on Liara's face. The bitch is stone cold. Morinth likes it. "You surprise me." She considers throwing in a word or two about Benezia but bites it back. If she must pretend to be her mother she must do so with all her boring nuances to boot.

"I am busy," Liara snaps. "I shouldn't have let either of you step foot on this ship after what Miranda did." Samara waits but she sees the question in Grace's eyes. "She deleted all Cerberus records from the server. It's taken this long to even know the depth of what she's taken. But it isn't gone. The Shadow Broker was smart and I'm smarter. Glyph and I have been working on rebuilding the databases." She looks to Grace. "You expect me to believe you're helping her?" _I'm right here,_ Morinth wants to say. "I know what you did, Shepard!"

Morinth freezes. Does she know? Did she recoup all the records? Does she know who she is? If she's focused on Grace, she can sink a bullet between her eyes before either woman can react.

Liara continues just as heatedly. "You let the Illusive Man keep the Collector Base?" Grace stares back at her. "Shepard, how could you? You know what happened on that base. The lives extinguished there... What's happened to you?"

"I didn't come here for a lecture, Liara. Do you have what we need or not?" She takes a step forward, looks her over. Morinth resists the urge to pry into her mind, to see what she's thinking. Grace shakes her head, as if not finding what she was looking for, and steps back.

"You would not have this ship if not for Commander Shepard," Morinth points out before Grace says something stupid that will blow their opportunity. It doesn't particularly matter if things blow up in their face, but she thinks hitting the clone facilities might mean more destruction. It will be fun. "She has assisted you many times over. Whatever disagreement you have with me, I trust you will set it aside and help us."

Liara ignores her and focuses on Grace. "Why wouldn't he give you what you need?" Grace, who has her back to them, stares up at the monitors. "Why come to me?" her voice is harder than Morinth would expect. Is she disappointed in Shepard? Angry at her? For sleeping around, for killing a justicar, for killing off her crew, for losing her squad? So many reasons to be disappointed. Morinth doesn't blame her for not knowing where to start. "I'm sorry about Tali."

Grace turns to look at her. Her brow crinkles, as if discovering a memory. A spike of sadness convincingly touches her features. "We'll need the locations of all Cerberus facilities," she says to her. "Don't make a justicar ask twice." Liara laughs caustically. Morinth laments the absence of popcorn.

"Samara," Liara says tightly, "can you leave us?"

"She stays," Grace returns sharply. Her fingers clench and she rubs at her temple. She should have left the helmet on. _You should have left her in the shuttle._

"Fine," Liara sounds exhausted. "Glyph. Please collect what we have and entrust it to Commander Shepard." The name twists on her tongue, as if she's said the name sarcastically. Does _Liara_ know Grace is a fake? _So many puzzles, so little time._ The silly drone notes Liara's orders and buzzes away. Liara looks up at the shattered ceiling. Morinth imagines lights or energy once marked the space. Grace plants her hands on her hips and keeps her back to the group.

Their energy is unsettling. Liara returns to a terminal and types frantically as if there were no tomorrow. Grace keeps her distance, occasionally sneaking a glance over at Liara. Her features shift between soft and hard. Is it just residual clone anger or is it something more? Do clones share their original's feelings, Morinth wonders. She hopes not. The last thing she needs is for her would-be serial killer to go lovestruck over some stuck-up asari.

Morinth approaches Liara. It would be fun to gloat but she values her disguise and will hold on to it as long as she can. "I appreciate your assistance, Dr. T'Soni. I apologize if I was... rude."

Liara continues to type. Morinth wonders if she heard her or is outright ignoring her. "The matter on Thessia was resolved," she tells her. Morinth is still. "The reports are fragmented but it seems that Miranda was able to reunite with Oriana."

"Yes."

"That's good," she says distractedly, more invested in whatever she writes than Miranda's happy outcome. "There's talk that Henry Lawson had an Inquisitor looking into the matter. He has transferred considerable sums of credits to certain matriarchs in the past several months. The Inquisitor was an exceptionally talented woman. I was hoping to move her to my employ." She laments the loss of a potential employee rather than a life. Morinth's eyes dance. "The official report states that you killed her." Eventually, Liara lifts her eyes. Morinth strips the emotion from her face.

"She was corrupt and abusing her mandate. I carry a piece of all those I must terminate with me."

"Mh." She looks past her, to Grace, watching her for several moments. Her face is unreadable, then angry, sad. She looks back to Morinth. "Watch her." Her eyes narrow, seeming to glisten. "I can't anymore. I won't."

Morinth looks to Grace, who catches her gaze instead of Liara's. Disappointed, she looks away.

* * *

Sweat runs down her face, stinging her eyes. Her breath sounds as if she were in a vacuum. The quarians are running but they're relatively easy targets. The other soldiers laugh at the Quarian fleet ships; they think they're a joke. Junk. Salvage. Scraps pieced together. X3 thinks they're resilient. She thinks there's something to be admired about them.

It doesn't take long for Cerberus to overrun the Idenna. They moved in stealthily but eventually someone sounded the alarm. Quarians are easy to kill. She's facing another direction when a quarian woman tries to slip past her. X3 grabs her, shoving her against the wall and squeezing her blade in between her ribs. Their bones are sturdier than most would presume.

She twists the blade and exhales. They're both faceless. The quarian's mask goes foggy. She breathes some words about her son. Fiddles with her omni-tool even as her bloody body slips away from the blade and down the wall. X3 cocks her head, watching her. "Why?" the quarian asks her.

She has orders. X3 tilts her head in the other direction before turning sharply and lopping off her head. A dying message for her son. A keepsake. It would foster more hostility for Cerberus, for her family. The head rolls a few feet and then stops.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Annalise isn't with her. It might have been different if she had been. Mission failure. Mission success. It doesn't matter anymore. She is a hamster on a spinning wheel, doing drills, doing tricks, killing on orders, for her family, for Cerberus.

The shuttle back to the base takes hours. The others are rowdy, talking about the mission excitedly. X3 keeps her helmet on. She's glad the quarian kept her helmet on too. The Cerberus facility is a massive sprawl of indiscriminate land. The architecture is neat and efficient, clinical, a giant lab. X3 is beginning to think that they're all rats. So many lives lost to what end? Is the end of innocents worth it?

X8 is still on the run. They still want _her_ and they can't catch her. They're settling for X3. Should she be settled on? Should she let others settle on her? A Shepard clone. What's her purpose? Is it Shepard's purpose? Leng's purpose? The Illusive Man's purpose? Property. Leng told her she is property. Does property get to choose its path?

She steps off the shuttle and ignores those who attempt to engage her in conversation. She walks the shadowy halls by memory. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Until she arrives at the room. It's black except for the small glow of the nightstand. Annalise is reclined on the bed, a thin pillow folded in half beneath her head. She has been kept removed from the others. She has been alienated from her family for her failure. Leng has suggested they not work together anymore. X3 finds the idea... disagreeable. Annalise shifts on the bed, looks up at her. There is a moment of panic in her eyes. X3 removes the helmet but the panic doesn't go away.

"Leng doesn't want you here."

X3 flicks her eyes away. "No." She knows Annalise is upset that X3 destroyed her artifact. She may also be upset that X3 dislocated her arm but she isn't sure of that. She may be upset that Leng shot her when X3 revealed she also had an artifact. She taunted Leng and Annalise bore his retribution. "Are you still bleeding?" Without waiting for a response she lifts the white Cerberus shirt Annalise wears. Her abdomen is bandaged, the blood has soaked through. X3 does not want her to die. "We should leave." Annalise looks at her. "Leave Leng. Leave Cerberus. I don't know what family is." She tries to find words. Better words. "I don't think this is family."

Annalise narrows her eyes and yanks her shirt down. "You leave. I'm staying." She turns on her side, facing away from her. X3 stands awkwardly before sitting on the edge of the bed. She thinks about telling her of the innocent quarians she killed. She thinks of asking Annalise if she ever thinks about the people they take out, for _being_ , for getting in the way. "I heard the Bahak system was destroyed?" her voice is small, sad and hopeful.

"Yes."

Annalise curls into herself and begins to cry. X3 doesn't know how to help her. She doesn't know how to cry or why people cry. Maybe, since she's only pieces of people, she isn't capable. Does Annalise want something? Does crying do anything? It seems pointless. X3 watches her, fingers curling around the blanket, helpless.

* * *

Wind and sleet lash the shuttle as they pull away. Lightning cuts across the viewport. Grace grips the controls firmly, rising into the tempest. Landing the shuttle was a nerve-wracking affair. Taking off is only slightly less so. Samara sits in the bucket seat to her right, silently watching her with a hint of bemusement in her eyes. _You are a terrible driver_.

The Shadow Broker's ship – _Liara's_ _ship_ – quickly disappears into the mist beneath them. Liara is the Shadow Broker now. Who was the previous Shadow Broker? Even Hope hadn't known; Grace asked her after the encounter on Ilos. She did some digging on the extranet, finding only absurd conspiracy theories. _The Broker is a volus hiding in plain sight on the Citadel! No, he's a front for the Salarian STG! No, I heard he's the last surviving Prothean!_ On and on it went, each speculation more ridiculous than the last.

Hope said the Shadow Broker was The Illusive Man's chief rival. He interfered with the operation to recover Shepard's body, nearly succeeding in handing Shepard over to the Collectors. Liara and Cerberus prevailed in the end, and Miranda Lawson went on to rebuild Shepard. _You're not the real Shepard. You were just the spare parts. Not worth my time._ Grace owes her existence to Cerberus, yet to them she's just a collection of limbs and organs to be harvested. Somehow Hope didn't think it worth mentioning.

The bucking of the shuttle gradually stills as they exit the atmosphere. The freighter awaits them in orbit around Ansuz, the fourth planet in the system. Grace still isn't sure how Samara managed to secure passage for them. Credits are in short supply. That was one thing Hope was always good for, but the justicar has made herself invaluable as well. How refreshing to share company with someone who has made honesty and justice her "Code," her way of life.

They have the location of a suspected Cerberus cloning facility. Her likely birthplace. How many others were 'born' there? Will she find more like her there? Her hands go clammy at the thought. Liara's data is incomplete, but the records indicate the facility may still be active. Grace turns to Samara. "We're heading to the Attican Cluster next."

Samara nods. "Of course, Commander."

"I told you to stop calling me that." Grace thinks the justicar is enjoying this more than she lets on. Why didn't she mention Liara?

Samara smiles wryly and looks out the viewport at the stars. Ansuz is a bright dot, slowly growing larger. Grace watches Hagalaz shrink in the rearview monitor. It looks remarkably calm from a distance, like a giant olive surrounded by lazy swirls of cotton. Conditions are incredibly harsh on the surface, but there is life there. It is the nature of life to fight, to adapt, to persevere when given the smallest chance. "Have you given thought to how we will bypass their security measures?" the justicar asks. "Guns and biotics will not be sufficient."

"Are you sure? I find they usually are." It's a joke, but Grace knows Samara's concern is valid. Hope has taught her some basic hacking methods. She can override simple security systems, but that's the extent of her abilities in that area.

There's a soft rustle behind them, and then a man's voice. "Perhaps I can be of assistance."

Both women whirl around in their chairs, drawing their weapons. The man that stands there has large, dark eyes, gilled cheeks, and scaled flesh that glistens with a chromatic sheen. A drell. He stands with his arms behind his back.

"Who the fuck are you?" Grace growls, Paladin pointed at his face. "How did you get in here?"

The man raises both hands, showing his palms. "I mean you no harm, Commander. Do you not remember me? I am Feron."

Grace furrows her brow, searching through the muddy soup of Shepard's stolen memories. Nothing. "Feron?"

"Yes," he speaks calmly. "We met briefly, when you assaulted the Shadow Broker's ship. Your associate, Miranda Lawson, freed me from a torture device. I am grateful."

He seems sincere. And what can one drell do against her and a justicar? "Oh. Feron," she says knowingly, lowering her gun. Samara follows suit. "Glad to see you're okay, but I'd still like to know what the hell you're doing on my shuttle."

He lowers his hands. "I apologize for the subterfuge, Commander. I appropriated a tactical cloak and boarded ahead of you. You and the justicar," he nods towards Samara, "asked for data regarding Cerberus facilities. I can only assume you intend sabotage? I would like to assist."

"Why not just ask?"

"Ah," he looks down. "I'm afraid Doctor T'Soni would have protested quite vehemently. I did not want to put you in that position. She has been… very protective of me. Perhaps it was craven and presumptuous of me to take this course of action, but I have—what do you call it? Cabin fever? I wish to be of use."

Grace nods. "And what 'use' would that be?"

He blinks. "I'm afraid I'm not in your class when it comes to combat, Commander. However, I am skilled at infiltrating. Along with the tactical cloak, I have acquired a highly sophisticated suite of cybercracking software." He smiles. "One of the benefits of having nearly unfettered access to the Shadow Broker's resources. In addition, I have some familiarity with Cerberus security protocols, having spent some time with them."

Grace raises her Paladin again and steps closer. "You worked for Cerberus?"

To his credit, he remains calm. "My history is complicated. But, yes, I worked for Cerberus for a short while. I assisted them with recovering your... you from the Shadow Broker. That was the extent of my allegiance with Cerberus. Now they are Liara's enemy. My enemy."

Grace studies his face for a moment, then puts her gun away. She extends her hand. "Welcome aboard, Feron."

* * *

EDI reminds her she has new email messages at her terminal. Shepard lies on the bed, her forearm draped lazily across her forehead. Her time is running out. She's pushing it. Hackett's words. She can be a good Alliance pup and turn herself in or let the world continue to think she's a terrorist. The Alliance isn't doing anything to clear up any public misconceptions. Khalisah Al-Jilani is running her name into the ground. She should have put a bullet in her head.

The new fish tank pulses a pale blue. The hum of the machinery is like a lullaby. There's something soothing about its constant company. She forces herself to stand. Liara got her ship back and ditched her. There's been no word from Miranda or Morinth. Garrus wants nothing to do with her. Tali's dead. The others didn't matter. She has a headache.

She goes to the desk and looks at the empty model stands. Liara's photograph stares back at her. She was younger in the photograph, staring with wide, idealistic eyes towards the future. Now she's a bitter, jaded bitch that uses her for free labor whenever she needs something. _Fuck you, Liara._ She massages her temple and logs onto her email.

Spam. You'd think Cerberus would be better at weeding that kind of thing out. There's an email from Conrad Verner. She groans inwardly and considers sending it straight to the trash bin. Against all reason she opens it. Maybe she's bored. Maybe she needs a good laugh.

 _Jane,_

 _It's me. I know you've wanted answers but I can't give them to you right now. The mission was a success. I wouldn't have been able to do it without Samara so thank you for that. Cerberus is no longer safe for me or Ori. I won't be returning. I don't expect your forgiveness but I hope you understand. One more thing: I believe there may be a rogue agent after you. Watch your back._

— _ML_

Shepard stares at the orange text on the black background. Miranda's gone. Morinth is likely gone. And now she has a 'rogue agent' after her. It must be Tuesday. That's fine. She doesn't need them. She doesn't need anyone. She has the _Normandy_. She has EDI and Joker. The Illusive Man supports her. She's come back to life, stopped the Collectors, killed the Shadow Broker and stopped a Reaper invasion.

"EDI, have Joker set course for Omega."

She could use some shore leave. She's in no rush to go to the Citadel. Anderson wanted to meet with her but she's in no hurry to see him. For all she knows, Hackett will have a team ambush her there. Illium doesn't work either. She's about had it with the asari and all their fine print. Omega is dirty but honest and unapologetic. Anything goes as long as you've got enough credits and a large enough gun.

{ _Hey, Commander. You've got a vidcall from the Council? Blow up one relay and everybody gets their panties in a twist. Do salarians wear panties? Anyway, they are not letting up. }_

The Council has attempted to connect with her on several occasions since she's spoken with Hackett. If the Alliance has turned against her, she doubts the Council will be any better. They've always had their heads up their asses and there's no doubt that working with a human survivalist group will guarantee that she's landed on their shit list. "Tell the Council I'm unavailable, Joker."

 _{ Sure you don't want to hang up on them yourself? That was always pretty cool. }_

Tempting. There are few things more satisfying than disconnecting from their calls. "I've got business on Omega. If they're so insistent on speaking to me, they can meet me there."

 _{ Yeah, okay, I hope you don't mind if I don't hold my breath on that one. I'll pass that along, Commander. }_

Shepard pulls the gun from the holster strapped to her thigh and sets it on the desk next to the laptop. Why'd she save the Council to begin with? They've always been a pain in her ass. It's not like her to disobey orders from Hackett. She's been described as ruthless and pigheaded but she hasn't been known to willingly ignore protocol and orders. _You're not the Alliance anymore. They're trying to pin a crime on you for diplomatic reasons._

It's a simple matter but she's uneasy. No one follows her anymore. Hard to take orders from a zombie, maybe. What if she didn't come back right? The thought has plagued her. Less so with each passing day but there, like a spike, it worms its way into the back of her thoughts.

Something moves in the shadows. She stands, hand around the grip of the pistol, finger on the trigger.

There's nothing there.

A rogue agent is after her. Who? _No one to worry about. No one walks out of a fight with me alive unless I say so._ Yeah, sure.

But she's unsettled.

* * *

They land about a mile away to avoid the anti-air defenses and trek through marshy woodlands until they get to the outer perimeter of the compound. Feron hacks into the security system and brings down the electrical fence. _If you don't mind, Commander, I'm going to stay cloaked as much as possible_. He's a decent shot with the Indra he carries, but he's no Hope.

The Cerberus troops are well-organized and varied. They have a small army of mechs, including an Atlas. Samara is incredible, a force of nature. Grace marvels at her ferocity and power, even through the red haze of her own fury. Shepard pissed this woman off? She must be an idiot. The asari speaks of justice and "the Code," but it's obvious she enjoys the mayhem of battle. She's frightening to behold. Together, they devastate the enemy forces with a relentless series of deafening biotic explosions and well-aimed gunfire.

For all their combined might, their mission might have ended in frustration at the bunker doors if not for Feron. Within five minutes he cracks the cyber-lock and the bunker slides open. Inside they meet only token resistance and the blaring sound of klaxons. They go room to room, quickly dispatching the soldiers they encounter. There are scientists and technicians who beg for their lives right up until Grace blows their brains out. She looks to Samara. "Got a problem with this?"

The justicar shakes her head coolly. "Not at all. They have been conducting illegal and unethical research for a terrorist organization. They do not deserve mercy. If you do not kill them, I will."

Grace nods and continues toward the next room.

"Commander," Feron calls out. "I have accessed the blueprint for this facility." He summons up the holo-map with his omni-tool, and points to a highlighted area with his free hand. "This is the server room." He slides his finger over to another spot. "And I believe this room holds what you are looking for."

"Nice work," Grace replies. "I want you to get to those servers and wipe them clean. No copies, and no uplink to Liara. Do you understand?"

"Commander… I—"

" _Do you understand?_ "

"I… Yes, Commander."

"Good." Feron has been useful, but she doesn't fully trust his motivations. His first loyalty is to Liara. She turns to the justicar. "Samara, go with him. Keep him safe."

Disappointment flickers over her face, but she nods. "Very well. Make haste, Commander. Backup is likely on the way."

Grace nods, then turns and leaves. Walking briskly, she makes her way through flickering corridors, toward the lab. She wishes she had thought to tell Feron to deactivate the goddamn klaxons. She can't hear herself think. A balding scientist pokes his head out of a doorway, then ducks back in when he sees her coming. She walks into the room. The moron is hiding under his desk. She grabs him by the scruff of his lab coat, drags him to his feet and pulls him out of the room. He babbles hysterically—something about a wife and kids.

The lab is four doors down. There's a keypad lock on the door. She could try to hack it, but this will be much faster. "Open it," she tells the man. He punches in some numbers, fucks it up, gets a panicked look on his face. She slams his head into the door. He yelps, grabbing his head. "Stop screwing around. Open it." He tries again. The door clicks open. "Leave," she says. He runs.

Heart pounding nearly out of her chest, she opens the door and steps into a refrigerated blast of air. She pulls her helmet off. She can see her breath. A solitary desk and chair sit in the middle of the room. On either side of her is a row of six coffin-like pods with translucent covers, stretching to the back of the room. There are tanks pumping gases and fluids into the pods. The pods sit on horizontal beds, tilted forward at about a 20-degree angle. They're numbered sequentially from 13 to 24, the numerals stenciled on the glass covers. With dread, she realizes they contain _shapes_. Some of the shapes don't look… right.

A datapad sits on the desk in the middle of the room. Grace walks to it and sets her helmet down. She picks the datapad up with a trembling hand. She skims through the text.

… _adjustments have been made to compensate for Shepard's numerous chromosomal mutations, but failure rate remains high … clone development has been further complicated by the introduction of element zero into the nutrient solution … X8 is the only subject to have developed without defects … ideal candidate for the Phantom project … X8 has been stolen. Jones is dead. Operative Rasa has disappeared … X3 has been activated after a series of transplants from X2, X4, X5, X7, X10, X12 … remaining material from the first batch has been destroyed … … batch 2 has been initiated … X20 appears to be developing well, with only minor, surgically correctable defects to the respiratory system ... new language engrams have been installed. Viable clones will now awake with the power of speech ... X14 and X19 have abnormalities but are considered viable … recommend utilizing the remaining subjects as transplant donors_

Grace staggers away from the desk, nearly losing her balance as the room spins around her. _What the fuck?_ _What in the fucking fuck?_ Her breath comes faster and faster. She was a part of the original twelve. There are another twelve. Twenty-four total? Twenty-four its...? Things? Hers? Not even. She isn't any different than they are. She's another scrap, salvage for Commander Shepard. Does Shepard know about her copies? Does she laugh at them? Does she move into battle fearlessly knowing that there are tools at her disposal? She has the luxury of savagery and recklessness. What must it be like to live without fear? Is it living? Is Shepard something more now? Brought back from death, and more created in her image. Is she a god?

Grace slams a heat sink into the Paladin and swallows the lump in her throat. Her heavy breath fogs around her. She is not unique, she is not special, she is not a person. She is a project. X8. An object unworthy of even a name. Is that why Hope refused to let her have one? Was it only that she wanted her to become accustomed to bearing the name Jane Shepard or did she not think her suitable of having one? Hope has had countless names. Hope the liar, murderer, terrorist.

Her legs are numb. Her steps uneven, pitching her forward. It's not fair. It isn't fair. She was created and given the ability and intellect to love life, end life, but she is only a shelf product. These things, these other its... they're like her too.

She regains control of her breath, musters her determination once again. She walks to the pod numbered 13 and pries the cover open. The _thing_ inside is misshapen and stunted, barely resembling a human being. It breathes through a toothless mouth, its eyes unblinking and vacant. She deliberates. When she found out what she was, that there were others, it became clear to her what she must do. Now she hesitates. What crime has this thing committed, except to remind her that she is the spawn of genetic material? _Does it even have a soul?_ She searches its eyes and finds nothing. _No. Things don't have souls._ Grace puts a bullet in its head and moves to the next pod. X14 is deformed, but less grotesquely so. It has awareness in its eyes if not understanding. _Another thing. More scraps for Shepard._ She ends its brief existence and moves to the next pod.

One by one, she continues this way. She can always find a reason. She is chipping away at Shepard's defenses. Shepard won't have anything when Grace finds her. Most are monstrosities, the stuff of nightmares, but X20 is different. X20 is the one that will haunt her sleep. Perfectly formed, it looks at her with intelligence. Eyes widening as she points her gun at it, it stretches out an arm and utters a raspy mewling sound, _pleading_ with her. "No," it speaks to Grace in her voice. It tries to crawl out of the pod, tugging at tubes. Grace barely remembers her own awakening, the weakness in her legs. This one has just been 'birthed'. It's faster than she was, more advanced. It begs. "Please..."

"Sorry." She's surprised by the evenness of her voice, the flatness of it. She lowers the Paladin, lines the shot until the moment its eyes turn green. She pulls the trigger. Its brains spatter, her head falling in chunks on the floor. It's her. That thing is her. If Hope hadn't woken her up, would it have been X3 to come along and eliminate her? Would it have been X20? Maybe Miranda would have taken some part of her and given it to Shepard. What is she? A thing. A monster. A scrap. Soulless. A shell. She's hyperventilating again. The blood smokes on the floor, hot against the stinging cold of the room.

She looks around at the massacre of her. Murder-suicide. A simple act of self-loathing? Dead. They're all dead. Was this what she was looking for? Was this her family? She gasps, slipping on the bloody floor as she takes weaving steps, holding herself up at the edge of the desk, touching the datapad, staining it with blood. What is she? What the hell is she? Shepard is a monster. Is she any better? Her shoulders hunch over, she sinks, the tears spilling hotly over her cheeks again. _Weak. Pathetic. **You were just the spare parts. Not worth my time.**_ Crying again. Broken piece of shit. She's cried too much, lately. _Get yourself together. Get yourself together X8._ She takes a few more gasping breaths, straightens. Wiping tears from her cheeks, she turns to the door. Samara stands there, watching her intently. How long has she been there? They stare at each for a long moment, unmoving. There's something magnetic about the justicar's gaze.

Samara holds the door open. "Feron is waiting. We must leave, _Grace_."

Grace. That name. What a joke. She slips on her helmet and looks around at them. Her murdered family. Her sisters. Her. She shoots at a few gas valves and is rewarded with licking flames She thinks of Torfan. She remembers how the batarians begged. She wasn't moved then, either. Her hand drops to her belt and unclips a few grenades. She pulls the pins and chucks them into the room. Cerberus can't have any of it. Any of her. She'll leave them nothing. They won't make more, build more, not here. The room burns, hot air caressing her face. The klaxon sounds, ringing in her ears. She tells herself not to look back but she always will.


	21. Haunted

Omega stinks of piss and sulfur. X3 wears a modified Phantom suit, stripped of the usual Cerberus insignia and colors. There doesn't seem to be a quiet (or clean) spot anywhere on the space station. Blaring music echoes from some dive bar not far away. Groups of people congregate in the halls, talking, yelling, laughing, preaching. Idiots and drunkards babble and slump against the walls, sometimes collapsing on the floor until someone kicks them or rousts them awake. One wretch lying in a pool of vomit hasn't moved since X3 arrived. She isn't sure if he's alive or dead. Beneath it all, the deep, rhythmic clang of mining machinery thrums through the metal hallways.

Leng says this is where the scum of the galaxy reside, where the worst of the worst find refuge. Ruling over them all is a territorial bitch of an asari named Aria T'Loak. It's important that they stay off her radar. Aria wouldn't be pleased to discover Cerberus agents are running black ops on her station. The Illusive Man needs her cooperation. There's a hint of disdain in Leng's voice when he discloses the last.

A human female standing in the shadows motions to them as they approach. "Leng!" she hisses a whisper. Their contact. They join her in the darkness. Her hair is dyed pink and she's wearing a glittering gold outfit. Not every dancer in the galaxy is an asari. She's smoking a cigarette, and offers one to Leng. He refuses. "Who's your girlfriend?" she asks, nodding to X3.

"She's nobody. Tell me what you have." X3 wonders if she could stick her sword through the back of Leng's head before he could react. He made her hurt Annalise.

The pink-haired girl blows a puff of smoke in X3's direction and turns to Leng. "That geezer you're looking for. Randall Eezo?"

"Ezno."

"Yeah, him. He's been here a couple days. He hangs out in a little joint called Afterburn. It's a couple levels down. Some of the miners go there after their shifts, you know?" She takes another drag on her cigarette. "I've heard he's a pretty good tipper. I like that in a guy." She holds out her hand.

Leng activates his omni-tool and wordlessly transfers some credits to her. "Anything else?

"Yeah. I've got something, if you'll double that."

Scowling, Leng grabs her forearm and squeezes. "Don't waste my time," he hisses. "What is it?"

"Ow! Okay okay, just let go, all right?" He releases her arm. She rubs at it with her opposite hand. "Shit, I think that's gonna bruise."

"Talk!" Leng barks.

She looks at him with a hurt expression. "We've been keeping an eye on Aria's daughter, like you asked. She's been seeing some guy on the hush-hush. A human. One of Aria's men. He keeps his face hidden most of the time, but we got a shot." She activates a simple omni-tool interface and punches up an image.

Leng stares at it for a moment. X3 has never seen him look surprised. "Grayson," he mutters. A moment later, he turns to X3. "You. Find Ezno. Shadow him, but don't engage him. He's… competent." Competent? High praise from Leng. He turns and strides away.

"What an asshole," the dancer mutters once he's out of view. Still rubbing her arm, she turns to X3. "So, you got rest of my tip?"

* * *

Randall Ezno walks into a bar. It sounds like the opening to a joke, but it feels more like the punchline. The Afterburn is a shitty knockoff dive that caters to a lower class of clientele. There's a few not-pretty-enough-for-Afterlife dancers who gyrate on mini-stages in the corners and throughout the room. The waitresses are surly and rarely get the orders right. The place stinks of sweat with undertones of yeast and vomit. Yeah. This place is definitely growing on him.

The joint is filling up. Some shift or another must be just ending. He's not sure which one. How does anybody keep track of time in this godforsaken place? Some miner, a batarian covered in soot and grime, bumps into him. "Watch where you're…" four-eyes starts to say, until he glances at Ezno's face. "Uh, excuse me, human." He backs away and moves around him.

He's used to the reaction. Cerberus did him up good. Gave him fancy new eyes and plugged all kinds of experimental cybernetics shit into him. He took to it like a salarian takes to school. They tell him he's one of the best subjects they've ever had. After they rigged him up, they started sending him out to bring back exotic animals and aliens for their research. It wasn't pleasant work. It wasn't personal. He wasn't proud of it, but he thought he was doing it for the good of humanity. That's what they told him. Then he saw the things they were doing in the name of humanity. The things they did to Inali...

He orders a beer at the bar and mutters a gruff thanks when the bartender slides it to him. He walks around, looking for a place to sit. He finds a booth that only has one person sitting at it: a turian with blue face markings, nursing a green drink and staring at the only quarian dancer in the room. One side of his face is messed up, covered in a web of scars.

It'll do. He slides in across from the turian. "Suuure," the bird-man drawls. "Have a seat. "

Ezno glances at the quarian dancer. "Blocking your view?"

The turian stares at him. "Nah." He points at Ezno's face. "What happened there?"

He's direct. And maybe a little drunk. "I was too pretty." He takes a swig of beer, swallows. "And not very useful. What about you? Someone decide you were too pretty?"

A chuckle. "Nah. I'm just clumsy."

Ezno nods. He thinks of all the turian soldiers he killed back at the Barn. They attacked the facility. He killed... how many? He's not sure. In the end, he avenged them. He destroyed the Barn himself. He killed the thing that used to be Inali. "You must be a pretty tough bastard."

The turian shrugs. "Just lucky, I guess. You look like maybe you've cheated death yourself. First Contact War?"

Ezno nods. "Yeah. I was a young pup, then. That was the first real action I saw. I was scared shitless. You birds are pretty good at war." A waitress comes into view. He flags her down. "Another beer." He points to the turian's drink. "And some more of... that."

The turian thanks him, gulping down the last of the green liquid. "So, Alliance." Ezno nods. "But now you're Cerberus."

Ezno raises an eyebrow. "Recently retired. What gave it away?"

"I recognize the look."

"Ah. The implants." He taps one of the metal strips on his cheek.

The turian shakes his head. "No. It's more about... what I don't see."

Ezno nods, one corner of his mouth tugging upward wryly. "You're an odd one."

"Oh?"

"No offense, but most birds I've met walk around like they have a ramrod up their ass."

Another chuckle. "No argument here."

"So. My turn. You're ex-military. Of course, that ain't no deep insight on my part. All you birds serve. But that profiling thing you did... Were you some sort of cop?" The turian's beady eyes fix on him. "C-Sec?"

The turian nods his answer. "What are you doing on Omega?"

"Nothing. Told you. I'm retired."

A scoff. "Guys like you don't get to 'retire'. That's not how it works."

"Let's call it a vacation then."

The turian looks away, staring wistfully at the quarian dancer. "Well. I guess this is the place for it."

Ezno sets down his empty glass and looks over at the quarian. What's the fascination? Nice hips, but they can't even take off their suits. "What brings you to this shit-hole, then? Pretty sure it ain't the service."

A pause. "Disappointment."

"Let me guess. You found out everything you believed in was a bunch of horseshit."

"Nailed it."

"Yeah." Ezno stares at the quarian a few moments longer. Hm. Maybe he sees it. "I'm a good guesser."

The turian chuckles first. Soon they're both laughing.

* * *

X3 watches from darkness as Ezno leaves the Afterburn. Waving off an asari whore that propositions him, he turns down a hallway. X3 cloaks and follows. Leng has been gone for hours. She doesn't know who Grayson is, but he must be a high priority target for Leng to divide his focus like this in the middle of a mission.

She follows the thick, grey-haired man as he descends into the bowels of Omega. The hum and thump of mining machinery grows steadily louder in her ears. Where is he going? She sticks to the shadows, cloaking as needed to avoid being detected by the various clumps of vorcha, batarians and turians that linger about. There are so many aliens in this place. Too many, Leng would say. A few look like they might want to cause trouble as Ezno passes by, but something about the way he looks at them always discourages them. She won't risk their attention. Her safety is not a concern, but she would lose Ezno. She's already on thin ice with Leng. He might take his anger out on Annalise again. Or force her to.

Ezno turns down a side alley. X3 hurries forward and steps around the corner. No one in sight. He's disappeared. If she were inclined to curse, she might utter a profanity. Instead, she moves forward. Ezno can't have gone far. He must know he's being followed. She uncloaks and stands in the middle of the hallway. Leng said not to engage him, but it's either that or let him escape. A moment later, a gravelly voice comes from behind her.

"You're pretty good, but you're not the only one with a fancy cloaking device. You Cerberus? Or one of Aria's?"

She turns toward him. He studies her with eyes that are startling, like twin ice crystals. His stony face is etched with cybernetics. She thinks he probably has even more implants than Leng. He holds a Mattock rifle that is pointed at her, but he doesn't shoot. His mistake. She raises a hand and fires at him with her palm cannon. He twists to one side, avoiding the energy pulse. He's surprisingly fast for an old man. She flips forward, sword out of its sheath. She thrusts at him once, then again and again. He parries the first two strikes with his rifle. The third one he only partially deflects, and it buries into the meat of his left arm. It just makes him mad. Scowling, he kicks her in the stomach, hard. She flies back several feet and falls, blade slipping out of her grasp.

Ezno throws his Mattock to one side. A whip-like instrument extends from one hand, like the ones she's seen the dragoons use back at the Phoenix facility. His cybernetics pulse blue as the leash crackles with energy. An instant later, it lashes out at her. She rolls to one side, snatches her blade and delivers a backswing. She connects, severing half the length of the leash. He grunts in amusement and drops the stub.

She quickly starts scrambling to her feet. Ezno charges her. She manages to get her sword up, impaling it into his left shoulder. He grits his teeth and grabs her sword hand. His meaty fingers wrap around her wrist, clamping like a vise. She raises her other hand to blast him in the face. He swats it aside, causing it to fire harmlessly into a wall. Her arm throbs from the blow. He's as strong as he is fast.

"Settle down," he says gruffly. "I just wanna take a look at you." He reaches for her face, pausing just shy of touching her helmet. He waits. She counts no fewer than six ways she can counter the hold he has on her. Instead, she just nods. It's an instinct she can't explain. He tugs on the helmet, pulling it free. Brown hair falls across her eyes. She shakes it out of the way and stares back at him impassively. He studies her mismatched eyes, the scars that divide her face. "Cerberus," he states, as if answering his own question. "I recognize that look."

She tilts her head.

He answers. "Like you've lost something. You're not sure what it is, but you want it back." There's a beat. "Let go." She does. He releases her wrist and steps back. She watches silently as he pulls the sword out of his shoulder with a grimace. He places the tip to the floor and snaps the blade with a booted foot. Both pieces drop to the floor with a clang.

Ezno walks over to where he discarded the Mattock. "Cerberus talks a good game. They've got a great sales pitch. They promise you purpose. They say they can make you whole, make you better. But they lie about the cost. They don't tell you what they're gonna take away. You don't even realize what you're giving up." He stoops to retrieve the Mattock, and clamps it to his back. He walks back to her. "I'm thinking in your case they took your tongue."

She blinks. "Maybe I could take yours." It's a... joke? She thinks this is how jokes work. She's not good at them, not like Annalise.

Nevertheless, he chuckles. "You remind me of someone," he says. "Look. I don't want to kill you. A person can hide on Omega forever, even from Cerberus. There are places down here even Aria doesn't go anymore. I figure two can hide just as easy as one. We could have each other's back." He extends a hand. "You coming or what?"

This isn't what she expected. Ezno is Cerberus. Cerberus is family. He wants to leave his family. He wants her to come with him. He treats her like a person. Cerberus treats her like a thing. Leng calls her property. She stares at the proffered hand, unable to move, strangely conflicted.

There's a movement in the shadows. Leng is a ghost. She never heard him approach. Ezno's hand is still reaching out to her when his head separates from his neck. It falls forward, hitting the ground and rolling to her. It comes to rest against her foot, his crystalline eyes staring up at her. His lips move, mouthing something. She doesn't know what he's trying to say. His eyes blink twice and then he is still.

Ezno's body has slumped to the ground, arterial blood still pumping out through the neck. Leng stands behind him, sword in hand. He stares at her for moment, then lowers the tip of the sword to the ground, hooking it onto her helmet and flicking it toward her. She snatches it out of the air. Flecks of Ezno's blood dot her hand.

"Ezno joined Cerberus of his own free will," Leng says, stooping to wipe his sword on Ezno's pants, first one side, then the other. "He brought this on himself when he turned against us. The things we do aren't always pretty, but they're necessary. We protect the interests of humanity." He sheathes the sword. "You want to know if you're property. You aren't. You want to choose. Here's your choice. Go back to the Phoenix facility and rejoin your family. Or don't.

He's offering her a choice? She looks down at Ezno. He chose to leave his family. To hide. "If I go back?"

"You're Cerberus forever. No more questioning our purpose."

"If I don't?"

He shrugs. "I'll say you're dead. That Ezno killed you."

She will have to take a new identity. To hide. To be alone. "What about Annalise?"

He smirks. "She's not part of this. She made her choice, like Ezno. I don't care what you do, but I no longer have the time to coddle you or the blonde. You're on your own." With that, Leng turns and vanishes into the shadows.

X3 stands, staring down at Ezno's clouded-over eyes, his parted lips. What was he trying to say?

* * *

The rampage is going nicely. They travel system to system, one remote Cerberus outpost to another, taking whatever they can use and leaving the rest in flames as they go. They brave rain and turbulent skies. They put an end to all manner of unethical experiments, some so bizarre and horrific that Morinth isn't even sure what their purpose is. Not that she really cares, whatever disapproving justicar-sounding words she may utter. She has a part to play.

The clones may be gone, but Grace is on a mission. She is ruthless and efficient. She has no compunction about nestling a bullet between the eyes of any mad scientist who doesn't get out of the way fast enough. Her eyes are flint as her pistol smokes. Increasingly, she resembles Shepard. Morinth doesn't share the observation with her. Nor do they speak of the clones.

Today they are on some rocky, orange-skied planet that barely supports life, and only in a narrow strip around its equator. Just the kind of forsaken place Cerberus likes to set up shop. The facility is a short distance south of the habitable zone, high on a windy cliff. They aren't sure what the facility is being used for. Liara's intel is vague—something to do with AI research? It doesn't matter, Grace says. It's Cerberus.

Feron has some difficulty hacking his way past the security measures, but he manages. In quiet moments, the drell has spoken of the many months he spent being tortured by the yahg that preceded Liara as Shadow Broker. Morinth wasn't certain he would have the stomach for what they are doing, but he hasn't flinched or complained. Morinth respects that about him. Still, she knows he has been in contact with Liara and it won't be long before he makes an excuse to leave. They've been at this for nearly a month. Even she is starting to tire of killing misguided human supremacists. What she wouldn't do for some Hallex and a night of dancing, to just be herself for a while. Shepard has emailed her about meeting on Omega.

There are soldiers and mechs inside the facility. It's nothing they haven't seen before. They paint the walls with Cerberus blood, pushing ahead until they find themselves stepping into a huge area with a high ceiling. A ship, strangely insectoid in appearance, dominates the room.

"What the hell?" Grace exclaims, absentmindedly throwing a singularity at a group of soldiers streaming in through a far door. "How the fuck did Cerberus get their hands on an intact geth ship?"

"I don't know, Commander," Feron replies, cloaking. His disembodied voice continues. "But I think I'm beginning to understand what kind of research is being conducted here."

Morinth detonates the singularity with a biotic throw. Body parts fly. She has no interest in geth. Cold metal and colder intellects, beyond her ability to touch. The metal men aren't even fun to kill. They finish off the soldiers and move onto the next section of the facility, the sound of klaxons ringing in their ears. Morinth has started hearing klaxons in her dreams.

Eventually, they come to a lab. Imprisoned in a containment chamber is a geth, fully intact, aside from a gaping hole in its chassis. Grace steps toward it, a curious expression on her face. The geth turns its head – the only part of it that can move – toward Grace. "Shepard-Commander," it speaks, a slight mechanical trill to its masculine voice. "Have you come to free us?"

* * *

They follow the geth as it marches back the way Grace and her companions came. Feron was reluctant to override its shackles. Samara urged her to destroy it. Grace isn't sure why she didn't take their advice. She's lost track of how many people she's killed with cool indifference since she started this quest. She murdered her sisters. Yet she couldn't bring herself to end this thing's existence. It talked. She's encountered geth before, during her CAT6 training. None of them talked. Was it mere curiosity that stayed her hand? Simple sympathy for another Cerberus victim? _X20 talked, too. Begged for her life_. She did the right thing, what she had to do.

The geth carries an unmodified M-98 Widow that it recovered from an armory soon after they released it. Grace hurries after the machine as it strides purposefully away. "Where are you going?"

"There is a geth vessel in this facility. We intend to take it. There is an urgent matter we must attend to. We have lost much time in this place."

 _We_. Why does it keep saying that? Are there more here? Did she make a mistake in freeing it? "This urgent matter. Does it involve killing all the humans?"

The geth stops and turns. The strobe that shines from its face flickers as it speaks. "No, Shepard-Commander. We do not wish to harm organics, despite the harm they have done to us."

Grace stifles a laugh. "I've encountered your kind before. I don't remember any of them hesitating for a second to try to kill me."

"Those were not geth. They were heretics."

"Heretics?"

The machine bobs its hook-like head. A curiously organic expression. "I will explain. There was a division in the Consensus over aligning our goals with those of Nazara…"

"Slow down," Grace holds up a hand, brow crinkling in confusion. "Nazara?"

"The Old Machine you refer to as Sovereign." _Old Machine? Ah. The Reapers_. "Most geth programs wished to seek their own path to improvement, segregated from organics, independent of the Old Machines. Others revered the Old Machines and considered them the pinnacle of evolution. They left the Consensus to seek the extermination of organics. We refer to them as heretics."

Grace realizes there are dimensions to these machine people that she was unaware of. "So these 'heretics' are the hostile geth I've encountered? The ones who helped Sovereign?"

"Yes, Shepard-Commander. They have developed a virus. They intend to introduce it to the Consensus, to convert all geth to heretics. We must stop them. Our probability of success is low, but we must try." _Our_. _We_. Again with the pronouns.

"Commander…" Samara starts, already anticipating what Grace is about to say.

"I'll help you."

* * *

They find the heretic vessel in deep space and board it. It's enormous, cavernous, eerie. They creep through it in silence as much as possible, but conflict is inevitable. Some of the heretics awaken and try to stop them. Grace and the geth unit fight their way forward, alone. Feron excused himself from the mission, saying Liara urgently required his assistance on Hagalaz. Samara begged off as well. _They are machines. The Code does not compel me to assist them. There is another matter I must attend to. Come find me on Omega, if you are fortunate enough to survive this foolish errand._

The geth unit calls itself a "mobile platform." One that houses over eleven hundred geth programs, which solves the mystery of why it continually refers to itself in the plural. Grace remembers when she thought of herself as an 'it'. Does the geth unit think of itself as an 'it'? It speaks with a man's voice. She frowns. "I need something to call you by," she tells it.

The geth cradles the M-98 Widow in its metallic arms. The drone it conjured up hovers by the far staircase. Another wave of heretics starts filtering in through the entrances below. Soon it will have to make a choice. Overwrite the heretics, or destroy them. The geth fires its Widow at a hunter as it reaches the stairs. One more 'platform' destroyed. It turns to her. "Geth seems an adequate form of address," it states, flatly.

"A bit on the nose, don't you think?" Grace positions herself behind a bank of consoles. "Besides, what would I call all my other robot friends?"

"I was not aware you were acquainted with any other synthetic life forms, Shepard-Commander."

So. Humor isn't in its programming. There's little time for banter anyway. The heretics are on top of them. As she fights, her mind works on the problem. The geth unit is a gestalt consciousness. Many programs in a single platform. Hm.

Minutes later, the latest wave of attackers lies smoldering and broken. She and the geth unit are alone again. They approach the control panel together. "Shepard-Commander. It is time. You must choose."

Graces tilts her head. "You're leaving this decision to me?"

"Yes. We are unable to reach a consensus. We will abide by your judgment."

She nods, having already reached her own consensus. She will not rewrite the heretics. They made their choice, right or wrong. She wouldn't want to be reprogrammed. Better to die than be twisted into something you despise. She presses the button. It's done. Is this what being a leader is? Always having to make the hard choice? Always having to press the button that ends lives? She looks up at the geth unit. "All right, _Legion_. Let's get out of this goddamn mausoleum."

* * *

Morinth nearly leaps out of the shuttle when it docks at Omega. She's been cooped up for two days, having diverted to the Osun System to drop off Feron. She left him on Erinle, to find his own passage to Hagalaz. The drell was intent on reuniting with his precious Liara. She considered making a snack of him, if only to save herself the trip. Instead, she clasped his hand and thanked him for his service to the galaxy. Somehow she managed to keep a straight face.

Morinth doesn't have a home. She's an explorer of the universe. She doesn't like standing still but Omega calls to her. Afterlife calls to her. She likes the dark. She finds those who want to lose themselves in the black and makes it night forever. The heavy bass of Afterlife carries. The floors hum and make every part of her sing. She moves through the throngs of people: the scum of the universe, those playing with fire, a playground for her to move in.

Shepard is here. She will meet with her, but first she will scratch an itch.

She walks straighter, more confidently, navigating her way through the crowds and finding the isolated, lonely corridors, draped in grime and shadows. The places she frequents, the areas her mother disdained. _And now I'm carrying you everywhere I go, Mother. I am you. I'm using your face, your status to get what I want._ She'd hate it.

It isn't long before she finds who she's looking for. _Brings Euphoria To Those Who Seek It._ A fancy name for a hanar drug peddler. The jelly creature bobs in place, the jetpack on his back keeping him afloat. He weaves back and forth studying her. "This one had not heard you returned to Omega. Artists were beginning to feel as if they were safe." The tone of hanar is always even, but if hanar _could_ smirk, she's certain this one would be. "Your appearance is very becoming."

Morinth scoffs. She hates the getup. The hanar knows her face but not her mother's. "It's been too long." She looks at his shelves and stands. A dingy light blinks over them. "What have you got for me?"

"This one has everything you could ask for. This one knows your affinity for Hallex. This one has an advance shipment of Hallex Prime. Fresh from the labs on Chalkhos. It is more potent than what this one has had in stock before."

"Side effects?"

"This one has heard no complaints. This one saved a bottle for you. The last one." One of his tentacles reaches down to grab a flask. It is edged like a diamond, slim and a dark purple color.

"Not pills?"

"The effect is near immediate. A longer, better high, with a silky smooth finish. You will not be disappointed."

She snatches it from him and tucks it into her boot. "Why not? Life's not worth living unless you're living dangerously." She transfers the credits over. His pink, squishy frame hovers over the credits display. "Hey, Euphoria? You see me outside of this place, you don't know me, all right?"

"This one has already forgotten your name."

She nods and moves on her way. Shepard is waiting and more importantly, Hallex Prime. It's been too long since she's been possessed, taken by pure sensation. She looks forward to it.

* * *

Legion is gone. Back to the Perseus Veil. Grace wonders what the hell she was thinking, helping a talking geth. She had enough of them when she was up against Saren. _When Shepard was up against Saren_. Her memories confuse her. They're not even her memories. _Shepard-Commander_ , it asked her before parting, _does this unit have a soul?_

They wiped out the heretics. Is destruction better than brainwashing? She thinks so. What if she's wrong? She thinks of X20. Did she have a soul? _Do I have a soul?_

She needs to catch up to Samara. So it's off to Omega again. Loud, dirty, filthy, filled to the brim with criminals.

She nearly died here. How strange it was, how terrifying. Later, when she considered her time in that safe house with Hope, she thought of herself as undeveloped. She could only understand herself as a thing, an 'it'. Now she knows she had it right all along. It was only her later existence that led her to believe that she could be more.

Hope's agenda was never the game plan. Grace isn't sure what was. She wanted to help people. She thinks that's what she wanted. Now she willingly spends her days in shuttles, traveling from Cerberus facility to Cerberus facility, burning them to the ground. Maybe it's in her DNA, that bloodlust. Shepard sacrificed her unit in Torfan to annihilate the batarians. She remembers that. She can smell the sweat and grime. He said please, he talked about his family and she pulled the trigger.

The smell is the same. Blood, sweat and guts, no matter the race. It fills her nostrils, thinking of that batarian in the safe house, the one she used the butt of the rifle on until he no longer had a face. Is she a monster? Is it Shepard's influence, Hope's, or is she only trying to mitigate the blame? _Please._ X20 with her voice. Bam. She can't sleep. Did she do the right thing? Is she doing the right thing? It plagues her.

Cerberus would have used the clones for... for what? Killing. Torturing. Abducting. Everything she's guilty of. But what if they didn't? _Then they were just harvesting organs for Shepard. They wouldn't have had any kind of life._ Grace wonders if she has always been this way. She remembers the _Normandy_ , laughing with Kaidan and Liara, through a haze, can feel Liara's lips against her own. _I have never been more sure of anything in my life,_ she'd said. Shepard's copy-memories, Shepard's copy-emotions. A current runs through her, hot and electric, dampening, a puddle of ice building in her stomach when she remembers Liara's eyes, cold as a blizzard, in Hagalaz.

She thinks of Hope. _I worried._ Did she? She lied to her from the beginning and manipulated her at every turn. _She doesn't care about you. She never did. Forget her._ It's difficult. Her guilt makes for a decent intermediary. Maybe she should stop. Maybe she should give it all up. _You'll never have your own life while Shepard lives. Kill her and walk away._ The universe would stand to benefit from the death of scum like that.

"Porn! Hey! I got porn!" The voice is unrecognizable. Grace turns her head. A turian with a splash of blue warpaint on his face beckons her closer with his clawed hands. "Anything you want. Human on krogan, asari on hanar, asari on asari, ooh, dangerous, turian and quarian, drell and salarian, geth on quarian, steamy! You name it, I got it."

She looks at the title he holds up. _Batarian Space Balls_ and another he tries to hide, _Ass Effect IV: Shepard & Saren, Blow by Blow_. She glowers. "Are you trying to shake me down? I can get all of that on the extranet."

"Yeah, but do you want to wade through all that trash? These are the goods! I got this sweet vid of two asari matriarchs, will make your face go red, human! Er… you humans do turn red, don't you?"

"I should go."

"But human—"

She leaves. Meanders through the downtrodden of Omega. There are various shops and she finds herself perusing them, buying meat on a stick from an elcor with a cigar before continuing on her way, chewing thoughtfully on the surprisingly tender and spiced delicacy. She finds a batarian preaching to a crowd of aliens, encouraging them to pick up their weapons against the blight that is humanity. Batarians. Prickling anger builds in her as he preaches his hatred. The anger is hot and suffocating. She has reactions and hatred where none should be. The batarians attacked Elysium. They got what they deserved on Torfan.

"Repent!" the prophet shouts. "Repent and restore your souls to glory before it's too late!" He looks at her, his oily black eyes fixating on her. "Even you, human. It isn't too late for you to repent. Wash away your sins. Start over. Make amends. And take to arms!"

Grace moves on. Repent, he says. There is no repentance for her. There is no righting her actions. _You've done nothing wrong_. Hasn't she? _Please._ The bang of the pistol, always startlingly loud, even in memory. She stabbed Hope. Guilt washes over her. Did Hope deserve that? Because she didn't like the truth? She exhales shakily and dumps the meat sticks, miserable now, finding it impossible to breathe. She leans against a wall, next to the entrance of the slums, dizzy with thoughts. She hates the holo-mask. A disguise for an imposter. She isn't allowed her own face. She doesn't have her own face.

Two batarians walk by, voices heated. "Did you hear? That bitch Shepard is here."

Grace straightens.

"First human Spectre!" The other batarian spits on the floor. "She wipes out an entire mass relay and the humans do nothing! Aratoht, gone! A blight on humanity!"

"My mother was on Aratoht," the first batarian's voice is thick and anguished.

Grace pushes away from the wall, slipping the N7 helmet on again. Shepard, Butcher of Torfan. Shepard, the mass murderer. _Put a stop to it. Put a stop to her._ She's cold, her face and fingers gone numb. Her breath spikes out of her, her mind a minefield of thoughts, but her purpose is clear. Find Shepard. Kill Shepard. _Take back your life._ Repent. Repent. _I'll repent later._

* * *

For a moment, Shepard thinks Samara has come back to life. Morinth's eyes have taken on the same blind gaze that her mother's held. Justice is blind, maybe. When their eyes meet Morinth smiles and Shepard feels less apprehensive. Morinth approaches. Where Samara marched, Morinth slinks. She sits opposite of her.

Shepard is reminded of the first time they met. Morinth was exciting, wild, violent. Shepard liked that. She could relate. "Shepard," Morinth searches her eyes. Shepard wonders what she's looking for. "Can't say I was expecting to hear from you."

"No more surprised than I was. I send you along with Miranda to help find Oriana, and you both abandon ship? I've been running Illusive's errands for the last month, with no one to talk to but Joker and EDI." Now that Morinth is in front of her, the cold disappointment of before washes into anger. That's more comfortable. It seethes inside of her. It pulses beat with the heavy, pounding bass of the space. Morinth flags a waitress over for drinks. "Nothing to say for yourself?"

"You know me, Shepard, I don't do well with routine. I helped Miranda get her bratty sister back. That's all I promised." She shifts in the plush seat. "Don't be mad at me because Miranda hasn't shown her face. Last I remember, you and I weren't on friendly terms," she smiles at that, "are you on friendly terms with anyone?" A beat. "Did you change your hair? Something's different."

Shepard glowers, ready to snap back a response when the drinks arrive. Morinth's is lava red, swirling between that and blue, to black, to red, back to blue again. She pulls something from her boot and dumps half of the liquid into the drink. "Want a hit?" she asks. Shepard considers it but shakes her head. Morinth dumps the rest in. The drink goes purple. She takes a sip, leans back against the seat, her head tilted back, her eyes momentarily fluttering. "Mh. It is a touch stronger than anticipated."

Samara's voice. Shepard chills. "I told you I don't like it when you do that." Morinth looks at her with blind eyes before blinking. Her eyes are sharp as razors again. "What's with you?"

"You tell me. You called me here. I hear you blew up Aratoht. I would have loved to see that mass relay go up." She leans forward, excited. "Something like that, it must have been beautiful."

"I stopped the Reapers."

Morinth shrugs. "A nice bonus, I guess. Sure it wasn't because you _like_ killing? There's no shame in that, Shepard. You, me, even Mother dearest. Coldblooded killers. You must love it like I do. Seeing their eyes, when they _know_ it's over..." she sighs, rapturous, "there's no other feeling like it."

"The Alliance wants me to turn myself in."

"Who cares what they want?"

Shepard laughs. "I knew there was a reason I liked you." Morinth smirks. "I'm not going to do it." Morinth nods in approval. "Miranda mentioned someone may be after me. Any idea who that might be?"

"Who _isn't_ after you? Even your own military," she says with another shrug.

"Fair point. Any idea where Miranda is?"

"Why? Looking to go on a hunt?" Morinth smiles. Shepard's eyes flash. Morinth leans forward, her lips close to Shepard's. "I wish I could tell you. Miranda's an uptight bitch, just like my mother. I bet they would have gotten along. You want to take her out, Shepard? We could kill her together." She meets her gaze. Shepard is struck, momentarily paralyzed, unable to fixate on anything other than Morinth. Her mind feels like pins and needles. Then Morinth sits back, seemingly vexed.

"Miranda's on the run because she thinks she isn't safe. I could protect her."

"Like you protected the squad on the Collector base?" She throws the comment like a grenade. Time slows. Shepard hears each beat of the music, the flash of every light. Then she's over the table, her pistol pressed to the temple of Morinth's skull. Everyone's dancing, immersed in their own moments. Shepard can't breathe. Morinth is still. "Is this really what you wish to do, Commander?" Samara's voice again. It was meant to be a new beginning. How did everything turn to shit?

There's a loud bang. Not Shepard's gun, but something else. There's screaming. Shepard releases Morinth, who appears unperturbed. Smoke billows into the room. Morinth picks up her drink and raises it in salute. "I believe someone is here to see you."

* * *

"Why do _we_ gotta always wait on the ship?" Joker complains. He spins circles in the cockpit chair, blowing out his lower lip in exaggerated sighs. "I mean, I know I run this thing but for once I'd like to get some shore leave? Even if it's the galaxy's version of a nastier Vegas. Man, I hear they have some really fantastic porn down there, too. Like, matriarch on matriarch stuff."

"Is the collection you have not sufficient?" EDI asks. Joker glances at her hologram representation. "I have taken to defragmenting it in order to allow standard _Normandy_ operation." He squints his eyes, unsure if the AI is having him on. "That was a joke."

"Yeah, you know, I still haven't gotten the hang of you doing that." He flops back against the chair, his arms dangling to the sides. "My ass went to sleep at least three hours ago." Another sigh. "It wasn't _bad_ before. You know, me, Tali and Garrus would sit around playing games," he laughs, "and then Donnelly, he would mac on Tali and Jack and basically any woman that wasn't Daniels, and- you could see her getting _so_ pissed. They were good ones," he says, his smile faltering before falling away altogether. He leans forward momentarily, elbow on his leg, hand covering his face. "Man."

EDI floats in place, her interface blinking slowly. "They got permanent shore leave," she offers at last.

Joker glares at her. "You know, why don't you shut up before I have you shackled again? Stupid AI, no one asked you."

"I apologize, Joker. It appears my humor parameters require some calibration. Perhaps we should find Garrus."

He smiles faintly then before glancing at the dashboard and sitting up straight. "Uh, EDI—"

"I see it." The radar shows a large ship on the screen. "It is an Alliance warship," EDI notes with some caution. "Likely it is here to apprehend Commander Shepard."

"No shit—"

"Could you clarify what—"

"No time! Hey, Commander," he adjusts his headpiece, confirms that it's tuned into the right frequency. "Uh… you might want to get the hell out of Dodge—"

"I don't have time for this, Joker!" she shouts into his earpiece.

Joker winces, "Yeah, I get that but—" The signal cuts off. She's turned off her earpiece. Joker takes a deep breath.

"Uh oh," EDI offers.

* * *

A figure emerges from the smoke. Shepard rolls her hand into a fist before raising the Carnifex at the new arrival. Her comm crackles lifelessly in her ear. The partygoers have long since run out. Grey, black and white armor. Nothing alarming there. The helmet… Whoever it is, she's wearing her old N7 helmet. "I don't know who the fuck you are," Shepard says, "but I'm going to be taking my helmet back. I'll be honest with you. I hope we have to do this the hard way."

Morinth remains seated, drinking, seemingly oblivious to the chaos building around them. The figure removes the helmet, sets it on a table. A ginger woman with a square jaw. She touches a finger to her face. The hologram disintegrates, line by line, revealing dark brown strands of hair, and angry green eyes. The air is trapped in her lungs. What the fuck. What the fuck!

The figure smashes toward her in a frantic wave of biotic energy, sending tables and chairs flying, flipping over. The sheer power of it is— A fist slams into her face. A tooth comes loose. Shepard touches her tongue to it, blood filling her mouth before she strikes back, clapping her hands over the intruder's head, driving an elbow hard into its face. The thing stumbles back. "Who the fuck are you?" Shepard howls. Is she losing it? She pants for breath and gets a biotic shove that hurtles her back, her spine straining painfully as it slams into the wall. The intruder moves forward again, face white with rage.

Morinth stands. The... thing, raises its hand at her. "Stay out of this, Samara!"

Samara? Shepard laughs. She was almost worried. But she has nothing to fear from idiots. "Samara, huh?" Shepard smiles through the blood. "Morinth must be leading you around by the nose. She always did like them young and stupid." Uncertainty touches the thing's eyes. It looks at Morinth, and Shepard sees some small part of it shatter. Has this thing been lied to before? "Who sent you?" Nothing. "You got others with you?" Shepard looks at Morinth. _Her_. "If you try anything, I'll snap your neck just like your mother's."

"Just stay out of it," the thing tells Morinth heatedly.

"You have a name, thing? Jesus, what the fuck are you? You a clone, like Miranda? My genetic leftovers? You think you can take me out?" She laughs caustically. "I don't know who the fuck you are," she repeats, "but I'm going to have fun killing you."

"Just fucking try it!" The woman lunges again, takes a hard swing. Shepard ducks, buries a fist into its side before clocking it on the side of its head. It doesn't make a sound. It's persistent. Another swing, then a kick. They miss. The thing is fast. Shepard's faster. She grabs a nearby stool and slams it into the thing's back, knocking it to the ground.

"What was that?" Shepard asks, swinging down hard again, just hoping the thing's spine will crack. She tosses the stool aside, taking a step back and driving her boot into its face. The woman grunts at last, turning over, nose splattering blood, but it gets to its feet. Biotically, the thing is impressive. Its hand to hand is expert, but not good enough to stand against her. "Good," Shepard says, "I was hoping you had some more fight in you."

The only difference is its eyes, green, throughout, not blue like her own go when biotic energy is coursing through her. It throws itself at Shepard again and again. Shepard bares her teeth in something resembling a smile. Illusive's gift has come in handy after all. Faster, stronger, she grins as her fists connect with the thing's face. It doubles over and Shepard knees it in the face violently until it collapses back. On the floor again. "What's the point of looking like me," she asks, "when you're clearly the inferior product? You can't fool anyone." She glances at Morinth, no longer worried about her lookalike. "This the loser you're running with now? This who Miranda was warning me about?" she scoffs. "I expected better." She spits on the clone, a glob of saliva and blood. "There. Tell them to make someone who can stand up to me."

Morinth is still and strangely somber.

A tangle of biotic energy writhes from the woman on the floor, and then Shepard's pistol slides out of its holster. Shepard grabs for it but it's gone. For a moment she can only stare dumbly as the Carnifex hurtles toward the woman on the floor. The next instant her senses return to her. Flexing her own biotics, she latches onto the gun and tugs back. The weapon flies back to her, nestling perfectly into her hand. "Neat trick," Shepard says. She lines up the shot and pulls the trigger. The first one goes into its leg. The thing screams. The second one buries into its chest. Shepard laughs at the small barrier it managed to erect at the last moment. It may have saved its life, but not for long.

Shepard stands over it, pointing the gun at the thing's head. It knows it's done. It looks tired, resigned, fingers half curling, eyes shimmering with Shepard can't say what. The green has sapped out of its eyes. Only the hazel remains. Common. Nothing. "You going to say 'please'?" she asks coldly.

The thing flinches. The trigger is half squeezed when there's an eruption of noise. "There she is!" Shepard steps back. Batarians. An entire squad of them rushing into the room, assault rifles and shotguns bared. Shepard looks around her. Shit. Shit. Shit. The thing is gone. She glances back.

Morinth is escaping into the smoke. Morinth is escaping with that thing. And the helmet. The batarians are closing in. Shepard screams and charges at them.

* * *

Their carcasses are strewn all over the club floor. Shepard stands in the middle of them, like the victor of a demented game of king of the hill. She's bloodied and tired. Her hardsuit is riddled with the pock marks of shotgun blasts that were too close for comfort. She stinks like batarian guts. She blinks and for a brief moment she's back in Torfan. They'd surrendered and begged. That _thing_ , that _copy_ hadn't. Had just given up. A clone. A lab rat, just like Grunt. Scurrying away like a rat. Where the hell did it come from? She'll talk to the Illusive Man. She needs answers. There's no way in hell he didn't know about this.

She clenches her fists and closes her eyes. As if the Alliance weren't already up her ass about playing nice with the batarians. Sighing, she clicks on her earpiece. "Hey, Joker, you read? Mind telling me what was so damn important?" Dead silence. Not even static. It's busted. She sighs, tosses it and leaves the batarians behind.

The energy level outside of the club is more amped up than usual. The people who spot her quickly look away, shrinking back, as if they've forgotten that she's a hero Spectre, that she's saved all their damned lives more times than she can count. No doubt Aria is going to turn up at any minute and tell her to get out of Omega. The last thing she needs is to deal with that pissed off asari.

She makes her way to the _Normandy_ docking bay and stops sharply. Alliance soldiers everywhere, armed, weapons bared, pointed at her. Why the hell didn't Joker warn her? She clenches her fists and brings a hand to her the Carnifex at her side. "Get out of my way."

"Sorry, Commander. We have our orders."

The soldier's some punk kid with zits on his quivering chin. Shepard laughs. "Pretty brave standing up to me when you have twenty soldiers backing you up." She yanks the gun out of her holster and sees him take an unintentional step back. "Now, are you going to get out of my way or am I going to have to move you?"

There's a murmur amongst the soldiers. She moves closer. The _Normandy_ is some thirty feet away. She just fought some demented copy of herself and a fuckton of pissed off batarian soldiers. She's not worried about Alliance soldiers caught up in red tape. They can't take her. They won't take her. The Reapers are coming. She's the only one who can stop them. She walks faster, breaks out into a run. The soldiers flinch. One good biotic blast and—

"Commander!"

That voice.

Shepard stops. She sees her there standing at the hull of the Alliance warship, a melon-armed buffoon standing next to her. _Mom...?_ The word catches in her throat. She was married to the Alliance and a mother to all the troops under her care. Their own relationship was always more... chilly. She sees her and thinks of her father, hanging from that doorknob.

"So far it's just insubordination," Hannah Shepard says. Her voice is strong and controlled but it sneaks in there, that hint of disappointment. "Don't make this worse for yourself. I know you. I know what lengths you're willing to go to." Shepard looks around her, anxiously. Her heart beats too fast. No escape. There's no escape. She could kill them all. No. No. Her jaw clenches, trembles. "Don't do this. Don't make this worse for yourself."

Shepard glares.

"Drop the gun."

Shepard smiles contemptuously and throws it to the side. Her mother is closer now, her and the giant ape. "You're tough with a squadron of soldiers, _Admiral_ ," her smile is tight. The rank is new, the insignia freshly sewn.

Hannah steps close. "You stop this right now," she hisses in her ear. "You're an officer in the Alliance. Stop acting like a spoiled brat and do what's right for once, won't you?"

Shepard stares at her. "For once," she says blankly. It's meant to be a question but her tone is flat.

Hannah is already turned around, moving away. "Cuff her, James."

He presses a hand to her back and pats her down, searching for other weapons. Her shotgun is tossed aside. Shepard is still staring at her mother, barely hearing the man's apology as he pulls one arm behind her back. He slips one cuff onto her wrist and then the other. Every sound is augmented. Everything moves in slow motion. They parade her through the group of soldiers. She glowers at the ground, eyes burning with frustration. It's over.


	22. Invasion

Her wrists are cuffed behind her.

Admiral Anderson enters the cell, appraising the room before settling his eyes on her. "Anderson." She remains seated on the cot. "I'd salute but as you can see, I'm a bit tied up." He shakes his head. "Is this really necessary? A trial? Cuffed like a common criminal?"

"They're not my rules, Shepard." He looks at her, as if trying to determine whether he recognizes her. "I asked them to remove your cuffs. Unfortunately, they know your reputation. They think you're dangerous. And they're not willing to risk you making a run for it given how difficult it was bringing you in. How have you been?"

"How do you think?"

She's angry and embarrassed. Their situation is unusual. Their relationship has always been that of mutual respect. She doesn't know how it happened. After her father passed and she joined the Alliance, Anderson seemed to seamlessly step into the role. He was hard-assed but encouraging. He pushed her when she needed pushing, and pushed others when she needed backup. If not for him, they'd never have been able to escape on the _Normandy_ to chase after Saren on Ilos. She made him a Council member. She was naive then. She thought the Council would look after all members of the galaxy. In the end it's politics as usual. She's just the token sacrificial lamb.

"I thought you were dead."

"Technically undead," she mutters. Anderson fixes her with a hard stare. She glares gently at the wall. "So is this the part where you tear my head off for working with Cerberus?"

"So it's true. A year ago, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. That's the least of our problems now. You blew up an entire system."

Oh, that. "So I keep hearing."

"This is the last thing we needed. You were just beginning to shake off the Butcher of Torfan moniker. The galaxy is looking at us—and in turn at humanity. They think we're bullies. That we run around shooting first and asking questions later. Over three hundred thousand batarians dead—and you've made no statement—"

"I stopped the Reapers—"

"The Alliance is worried how the other races will perceive us. Udina is up in arms. He wants you hanged."

"Fuck Udina." Power hungry maggot. Though she knows now she was naive before. Anderson's a good man but he doesn't have the stomach to get his hands dirty and do what needs to be done. He panders to the Council. Udina is bolder. Udina is selfish. Sometimes a little selfishness is needed for the greater good. Anderson steps closer. She can smell the fresh scent of his aftershave.

"Why didn't you come see me at the Citadel? I sent word. Kaidan says he saw you at Alchera."

"What?" The last time she saw Kaidan was on Horizon. So much for a happy reunion. She saved his ass on Virmire and he gets pissy at her for being alive. She remembers when he pursued her. Shepard liked him well enough. A good guy. He may have had a shot had she not met Liara. Then they lost Ash on Virmire. Her decision. Some part of her resents Kaidan for it anyway. She never went to Alchera. She got the message but who had time to go? It wasn't on her list of priorities to excavate the bodies of her old crew. "He's lying."

Anderson looks at her skeptically. "Why would he do that?"

Why _would he_ do that? Unless... She thinks of that thing, with the burning green eyes, biotic power like Jack's—Samara's even. Where the hell did it come from? "Anderson, listen to me. There's someone out there. Someone who looks like me. That must be who Kaidan saw." Anderson keeps his face expressionless. "I don't know where they came from, but I'm thinking it must be a clone or something, or—"

"Shepard… You've been away for a long time. I'm no fool. Working with Cerberus—hell. I don't know how they brought you back. Whatever it was, it can't be natural." Anderson shakes his head. "Don't tell me it wasn't you that blew up the Bahak system. You're not going to try to tell me it was an evil twin—"

"I know what I did!" She gets to her feet. "Don't patronize me."

"I'm not. You've been in the brig half a year, Shepard. Being in solitary confinement… It does a lot to a person. You once said you'd be dead before you joined Cerberus. Hackett asked you to turn yourself in and you refused. You were ready to gun down a squadron of soldiers when they tried to bring you in. War changes a person. This changes a person." He meets her eyes. "Between you and me, I wouldn't go around talking about clones. Or copies. The Council might try to play you for a war criminal. You'll need your wits about you. You go around with talk like that… They'll throw out any testimony you may have. Lock you up and throw away the key. You understand what I'm saying?"

"They can't do this to a Spectre."

"You're not a Spectre anymore. You died. They wiped you from the system. I asked you to come to the Citadel, to meet with me, to meet with the Council. You didn't do that. You're involved with Cerberus, and they're responsible for countless war crimes. I don't know that it's in the cards—"

"I saved them!" She never wanted to be a Spectre. When she got it, it became a weapon. She used it the way she saw fit. It got her out of scrapes and others into them. For a year she's been running around thinking she still had the title, the protection. Carte blanche. She goes pale, a knot in her stomach. "How's that for gratitude?"

"It's not fair," he concedes.

"You've gotta get me out of here."

"Tell me one thing. Why Cerberus?"

"They gave me what I needed to get the job done. They know about the Reaper threat. They're trying to fight it, while everyone else buries their head in the sand. While the Alliance plays politics."

Anderson keeps his hands buried in his pockets. A moment later he knocks on the door. "We're finished in here, James."

* * *

There's blood everywhere. Every inch of her throbs. She drools saliva and blood. Her jaw is dislocated. Leave me. Ust leave me. _We have to get you out of here._ It doesn't matter anymore. Grace tries to bat her away. Mowinth. Mowinth. Yoah not Samawa. Who ahe yoo. Who ahe yoo. _Someone else. Same as you._ Her vision is collapsing. There is red and shadows everywhere. Movement leaves trails of colors. She's pushed through a doorway. _Take care of her._ For a moment, Grace doesn't recognize her. She's someone else. She's someone else. Her eyes are no longer blind. They are contemplative and full of regret. She turns her back to her. _Don't die, Grace._

Pale sunlight streams in through the window, falling over her eyelids. She wakes. That same dream. Those same memories. Ben is loading up the wood stove. He notices her and comes over, half slipping into the bed and catching her lips. "Morning." His stubble scratches her face.

"You should have woken me."

"After the way you were tossing and turning last night?" He presses another kiss to her cheek and returns to the stove. "I'll start up the bacon if you want to get the eggs." She nods absently, wiping the sleep from her eyes. The wood cabin is cooler than expected this morning, even for Alaska. Ben's wearing his black and red checkered flannel. Grace slips into the jeans tossed haphazardly on the floor, grabs the brown carhart jacket and exits.

A field of sunflowers as far as the eye can see. Fresh, bright grass. In a few months it will go yellow and die away but she'll enjoy it for the time being. Winter is coming. _We'll make love, drink hot cocoa and snuggle all winter long._ She smiled at that. It's so... simple but she isn't adverse to it. It's been six months since she left Omega. Six months of trying to forget. Once she could walk again she took the first shuttle off the godforsaken asteroid and didn't look back.

She takes the small steps down, hearing her footsteps clunk in the wood. There's so much life on Earth. She has the time now to enjoy it, to stop and smell flowers, to run her fingers over blades of grass, to nestle her toes in the ground. There's a river not far from the cabin and she goes there every now and then. Sometimes Ben comes and they talk, fish, sometimes making love on the grassy banks.

Though the term doesn't sit well with her. She doesn't love Ben. She enjoys being with him. He's a good man. He's handsome. She tells herself it will be different when she can forget. When they first met, he questioned her constantly. His inquiries have ceased more recently. Maybe he saw the discord on her face when he pressed. _Where's your family? Do you have any sisters? What did you do before you came to Alaska?_ Nothing she can answer. _Anyone ever tell you you're the spitting image of Commander Shepard?_

She pretended it was the first time anyone had said it.

 _What's the point of looking like me when you're clearly the inferior product?_

That's what she is. A product. Something manufactured. Something that can be property. _Not anymore._ She's put away her things. The Paladin is stuffed at the bottom of a duffle bag, the N7 helmet, her CAT6 armor, her biotic amp boxed beside it. The asari medics removed the amp while operating and she never saw any need to slip it back on. Now she keeps the bag hidden beneath the bed.

She tries not to think of it. The items, like vipers, in the bag. Her past. The longer she's away the easier it is. She dreams of Shepard, of the Collectors. Boogeymen. More often, she dreams of Samara... or Morinth—of Liara, of Hope. Love and resentment flood her.

"Grace!" Daphne, the munchkin next door (a twenty minute walk away) comes barreling over, arms stretched out. Grace isn't sure how old the girl is. _Older than you._ Six or so, blonde hair braided into pigtails. Grace stoops, picking her up and swinging her around twice before setting her down. "Mom said I could look at the chickens if you were okay with it."

"You're in luck," Grace tussles her hair. "I was just going to grab some eggs. Did you eat? Want to stay for breakfast?" Daphne nods and they walk over together to the chicken coops. "Lead the way." Daphne runs ahead, careful as she opens the door inside. It's warm and the chickens, once afraid of Daphne, come clucking over. Grace uses a bowl to scoop up some chicken feed from the bag, handing it over to Daphne who throws it out to the chicken in arcs.

They go nuts, pecking happily at the dried worms. Grace takes the time to grab a small basket of chicken eggs. She waits, watching Daphne pet the chickens, picking one of the smaller ones up and letting it walk up and down her arm. She looks back. Grace smiles. This life is not exciting, but she thinks this is what happiness feels like. Only her dreams torture her now, her past actions.

It isn't bad being a nobody. No one has any expectations of her, no more than they'd have of anybody, anyway. "You all done?" Daphne nods and they exit together. No more killing. No more people trying to kill her for what she looks like, for what Shepard may have done. No more lies. She can live this way.

There's a small bite to the air but it's early yet. The sun is bright and the blue skies are cloudless. Ben is on the cabin stoop. "I made some coffee!" he looks at Daphne. "And I see you found a little girl. Let's fatten her up and have her for dinner." He picks her up and makes chomping sounds. Daphne screams delightedly.

Grace slaps his face lightly when he sets Daphne down. "I'm glad someone thinks you're funny." She kisses him and smiles. She tells herself she's happy. This is her life. She is choosing this life over what was dictated before. So why does she feel like an imposter?

* * *

The nights are quiet. Ben says he wants to get back to 'the way things used to be.' There's no radio or television in the cabin. They spend their days farming the land, tending to their garden; they hunt. Moose, tall and gangly, antlers wider than her outstretched arms, walk the land with their small calves in tow. Ben doesn't believe in guns, _they're not fair,_ he says, but he keeps the bow at his side, a quiver of arrows at his back. He keeps his arm in front of her, wanting to keep her safe. She doesn't know whether she likes that about him.

At night they sit on the front porch and watch the Northern Lights light up the sky in waves of colors, reds, greens, vivid purples. "You ever wonder what's beyond that?" he asks. She shakes her head. Likely he takes it that she doesn't. She already knows what's beyond and doesn't care to find it again.

None of it makes any sense. Why did Hope—Rasa, _whoever_ , lie to her for so long? Why did—Samara? Morinth—. How can she be a copy and have Shepard's memories? Why did that _thing_ that killed her CAT6 squad call her Shepard? Did Hope ever care about her? Hope told her a thing couldn't know how to love. _She was wrong_. She wishes she wasn't.

"What's the matter?" Ben looks down at her, palm cupping her face. He's inside her. She feels it physically and nothing more. He's still. He doesn't gnash and thrash like the others do. The cabin is warm and his face is lightly sweaty from his exertions.

Grace blinks at him. "What? Why'd you stop?"

"You're a million miles away." He has that hurt look in his eyes again. "What are you thinking about? You're always—" but she flips their positions, pushing him onto his back, moving against him. He tries to continue his line of questioning but eventually the questions fall away. The smell of the wood stove fills the cabin. The wind carries in the scents of wet grass and earth through the crevices in the cabin. Rain patters against the windows.

She places her hands on his chest and wants to close her eyes. She doesn't. She looks at him. When she closes her eyes all she sees is _them_.

* * *

The long stalks of the sunflowers have been rustling for minutes now. Grace only paid them the occasional attention. Instead she's occupied herself with playing fetch with the husky Ben brought back from a rescue shelter an eight hour drive away. _A century later and people are still treating these poor dogs like they only exist for the Iditarod. Reckless assholes._

The husky is yet unnamed. He's fairly young and has the brightest blue eyes she's ever seen. She wagers he's smarter than most people she's met. His little tin dog cookie collar says "Max" on it. "That's original," she mutters. "Go long, Max!" she throws the stick a long distance and he sends dirt and grass flying as he chases after it.

There's a sudden rustling from the sunflower fields. Grace's hand drops to her side. There's no holster. There's no gun. A moment later, Daphne bursts from the field, yellow petals in her hair, weaving along the strip of grassy dirt road to show her an airship model. "Grace!" Daphne runs over. "Look what I got, look what I got! Isn't it cool?" she lifts up the model.

Grace thinks of the collection in her cabin, kept in a glass case. Blinks at how startling the memory is before she looks at the little _Normandy_ being shaken at her. Grace reaches out to touch it but takes her hand back. "Yeah, that's great," her voice nearly shakes.

"I got it from John," she says, " _His_ dad bought it at the Citadel. It's so cool!" Grace nods and takes the slobbery stick Max returns to her. She pets his head and throws the stick again. Grace thought Daphne would be happy about the husky but doubts the girl has even noticed him in her excitement. "I traded a week's worth of allowance for it. He just said his dad would get him another one."

"Mh."

"I told John I know Commander Shepard!" she blurts out. Grace stiffens. For a moment she's angry. She has an impulse to take the toy model, throw it to the ground and stomp on it. The heat of the anger is so jarring that she's momentarily dizzy. "And he doesn't believe me. 'Why would Commander Shepard be in Alaska, stupid,' he said. Can I please get a picture with you and the _Normandy_? Please? PLEASE?"

Grace stares at her. Max returns with the stick but Grace pushes him away. Max whines and sits on his haunches looking up at Grace. "I'm not Shepard," she says sharply. "You shouldn't lie, Daphne. Lies hurt people."

Daphne looks like she's been slapped. Grace relents. Isn't that what she's been doing since she landed on Earth? Lying. _It isn't lying. You just haven't told them everything._ The same as what Hope did to her. She rubs her forehead and exhales.

"I know, but..." Daphne lowers her head. "We live outside of the stupid village and I don't have any friends. Everyone bullies me. I thought... If I could say that I knew Commander Shepard..."

Grace crosses her arms. Stupid, stupid, child. "Fine," she says irritably. "Just one and quick, okay?" The sadness and disappointment melts away immediately from her face. How easy it must be to be a child. Not that she ever knew. She sees fuzzy memories on a red tricycle, her father pushing her, pumping her little legs over to her mother saying, _not now, Janey._ She bites her tongue and kneels next to Daphne, who readies her omni-tool.

"Hold this," Daphne commands, giving her the _Normandy_. She snaps a picture and frowns at it, turning to Grace with vexation. "You look angry. I don't know..." she considers. "I guess Commander Shepard does look like that a lot of the time. Let's try another one, just in case." She snaps the picture. "Now you look sad." Daphne grins brightly in both pictures.

"Sorry."

Daphne takes the _Normandy_ back, holds on to it. "I'm sorry I made you mad." Grace shakes her head. "Do you want this? I'll give it to you if it'll make you feel better."

Grace smiles wryly, pinches her cheek. "Don't worry about it."

"Why are you sad?"

Grace considers the question. "I don't know. Lots of reasons, I guess. But! Have you met Max?" Max gets to his feet and barks. "He loves playing fetch. Here, I'll take the _Normandy_ and you can throw the stick for him, okay?" Daphne nods enthusiastically, handing the _Normandy_ over and throwing the stick, chasing after it with Max. "Hey uh—don't put those pictures up on any social media site, all right?"

She isn't sure that Daphne hears her. Maybe she's ignoring her. Stupid kid. _So stop smiling about it._

* * *

At night Shepard lies in her cot and stares up at the ceiling and the flickering shadows. She thinks about that thing on Omega. What the hell was it? A clone? What did it want? _It was wearing your helmet. What the fuck do you think it wanted?_ She took Anderson's advice and hasn't mentioned the matter again. She won't. Not yet. That's a conversation she's saving for the Illusive Man, if she ever sees that scheming, chain-smoking bastard again.

For months she's been awaiting trial. So much work for nothing. The Alliance has turned against her for doing what she could to stop the Reapers. More horrifying yet, the Reapers are still out there and no one is doing a goddamned thing about it.

Months of solitary confinement in a square room with a drab grey desk and a cot for furniture. They took the Carnifex and the Eviscerator. They took her armor and the biotic amp. They threw dingy navy blue fatigues at her and told her to wait. She has her omni-tool, but the fabrication module has been deactivated and her access to the extranet is blocked. She can use it to play games and read, neither of which she has much patience for. She spends her time exercising, pacing, sleeping. Sleep only brings anxious dreams of running through a dark forest. She awakes exhausted.

On occasion, she's taken to a privacy chamber where she meets with her counsel, a prim, attractive female lawyer appointed to her by the Alliance. The visits become more frequent as the military tribunal gets its shit together. It's during the sixth visit that the lawyer tells her that no matter what the outcome of the trial, Shepard has a home with Cerberus. A family. The Illusive Man values her service to humanity, even if the Alliance doesn't. Shepard doesn't see it coming, but she takes it in, weighs it, considers the implications. Cerberus has sleeper agents everywhere.

Other than the lawyer, the small, barred window on the door is her only link to the outside world. James Vega, the Neanderthal who cuffed her, is usually on guard duty. Whenever she needs escorting he's the one who takes her. Big guy, tats, a couple of scars. He's obviously seen some action. If she's honest, she likes the look. For the first few months, he watches her curiously, but whenever she tries at conversation with him he keeps his responses clipped and to the point. Jesus, he could use a shave. "Any news on the trial date?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, Commander."

He still calls her Commander. That's something. He has some lingering regard for her. Not that she's Alliance anymore. They're calling her a war criminal, a terrorist. She knowingly worked with Cerberus. They sling the accusation left and right, forgetting that if it weren't for Cerberus, she wouldn't even be alive. The Alliance gave her up for dead. Hell, if it weren't for Hackett she wouldn't be in this damned mess to begin with. _And the Reapers would already be here._ She did the right thing. She'll keep doing the right thing no matter what the cost.

She drops to the floor and does another set of pushups, counting them off between controlled exhalations. She'll stay strong, ready. When she gets out of here—and she will get out, nobody will stand in her way. Not James Vega, not her mother, not the Reapers, not even Anderson. And especially not that _thing_.

* * *

Pale sunlight streams in through the window, falling over her eyelids. She wakes. No dreams. A good night's rest. She doesn't see Ben. She pushes the covers off and dresses. It doesn't take long to start the wood stove. She settles a kettle full of water on top of it, prepping the coffee before stepping outside.

A field of sunflowers as far as the eye can see. Fresh, bright grass. The blue skies go on forever. She searches the skies but doesn't see any of the usual birds.

She takes the wooden steps down slowly. She has learned to take measured steps instead of marching. To experience instead of observing, judging. The door to the greenhouse is open. Max lies in front of it. He spots her and trots over. "Morning," she gives his head a vigorous patting.

"So the dog gets a greeting before I do," Ben exits the greenhouse, a vine of fresh tomatoes in hand. He kisses her. "Turned out good, huh?" She looks at them. They're bright red and unblemished.

She digs a finger into his side. "Well done," she nips his neck gently. "I've got the coffee started."

"And that's why I love you," he kisses her again. She hasn't said the words to him. They've talked about it. She isn't there yet. He's convinced one day she will be. _I just need to give you time. One of these days you're going to wake up and realize you're madly in love._ Her pale smiles are enough for him. For now. "By the way, Daphne's out in the sunflower field playing with that toy of hers."

The _Normandy_. Grace nods. "We're low on wood. I'll go cut some if you want to finish up the coffee."

They separate and she goes to the collection Ben has hauled in, bundles of logs, twined in rope, ready to be split. She grabs a bundle from the back of the pickup truck and throws it to the ground beside the massive stump of a tree that no longer is. The ax sits in the bed of the truck as well and she picks it up, the weight now familiar in her hands. It's a tool now. Not a weapon. Though the shift in thought took too long.

Cutting the rope free, she grabs a log and situates it in the middle of the tree stump. One easy swing and the log splits in half. She sets them to the side and repeats the process. The mindless repetition is a balm. It's an easy and welcome respite. If she just focuses on the task at hand, she doesn't have to think of what happened before. Everyone she knows is nestled in the back of her mind. They burrow into her but it's getting easier to ignore. Thwack. Another log split. Beads of sweat begin to form along her brow, cold in the morning.

In the distance, Daphne is playing with the _Normandy_. Moving in zigzags along the dirt, grass road. Smiling and happy. _I showed John the picture. I told him you said that if they bullied me anymore, Commander Shepard will kick their ass!_ Grace smiled faintly as she told her the story, no matter how the name makes her flinch. She still recalls the blow that dislocated her jaw.

Grace lifts the ax again, ready to split another log when she hears a growl. She looks for Max but doesn't see him. Likely, he's followed Ben into the cabin and is looking for bacon. Letting her arms fall back to her side she wanders away from the truck and to the dirt road in front of the cabin. She hears her breathing and nothing else.

Everything's still. Daphne's sitting on the ground now, bobbing the _Normandy_ along the grass.

Grace watches her until she hears panting and footsteps behind her. She turns. Grey skin, threads of electricity pulsing through it. A soulless howl. For a moment she stands there. She's hallucinating. The skies are darkening too quickly. It's almost on her when she swings the ax, lopping its head off. Hot blood splatters on her. She moved by instinct. She takes a step back, is grabbed, yowling, bites, teeth sink into her shoulder.

With a grunt, she throws them off of her, instinct makes her shoot a hand out. The husk stumbles back a few feet but without her biotic amp there's nothing to stop it from coming after her again. With a sharp breath she lashes out the ax, burying into the husk, severing its arm. Another swing and the head comes off. "Ben!" she screams.

She hears him, panicked and rushing out. The husk that grabbed her from behind is on her again. An elbow to the face and she knocks him off, onto its back. Once on the ground she stomps on his head. Crack, squish. This is all too familiar. Too normal. Comfortable. Despite the thick smell of blood in the air, sweat, she feels refreshed and startlingly alive.

Ben stares at her, horrified.

"Get Daphne," she says to him. They look to Daphne. She's stopped playing with the toy, her attention gone up. The breath goes out of Grace's lungs.

"What the hell is that?" Ben asks. She's never heard him sound like this, choked and panicked, terrified. "Oh, God. How many are there?"

Grace thinks she says her name but she's only breathed it. They're dotting the skies. Locusts. Grace runs towards Daphne. She isn't sure that she's ever run faster. The red beam shoots from the Reaper, sending up a cascade of dirt and rock. Sunflowers scatter through the air. "Daphne!" She heaves in air, choking on dirt and comes through the rubble. Reapers. The Reapers are here. Where the hell is Shepard? Why the hell isn't Shepard taking care of this?

She searches for Daphne but can't find her. The other Reapers have lighted and are walking the land like insects. A small arm dangles from the sunflower field. Grace sprints, kneels, finds her face down. She turns her over. Her eyes are wide open, her face streaked with dirt. Sunflower petals all over her. Grace is frozen. She touches her face. "Daphne?" her voice a broken whisper. She taps her face, stoops to listen to her heart. Nothing.

More howls. The sunflower stalks are shaking violently. "I'm sorry," Grace says, leaves her, runs.

No sign of Ben. She calls his name out, runs into the cabin, flips the bed onto its side, takes out the duffle bag. Quick, quick, quick. She's had to do this in under a minute before. Her hands shake as she snaps into the CAT6 armor, clicks the holster into place, checks the Paladin, inserts the biotic amp into the back of her neck. She carries the helmet in hand and exits.

Ben is there, a shotgun primed into the field. Max barks violently next to him. He looks at her. He looks wounded. Betrayed. "Who are you?" he asks. "Are you Commander Shepard?"

There's no time to answer. A horde of... what are those things? Stinking like raw meat, they come surging forward in a wave. She sends them flying back with a biotic push but more come. The Reapers are stalking forward, their footsteps creating earthquakes. She lodges bullets into the husks and the other things, dropping them one by one. There are too many.

"Ben, we have to go."

He fires a shotgun blast, staggering one of the monsters. Was it a batarian...? "I'm not leaving. This is my home."

"Don't be stupid, those things are everywhere! You're not going to have a home!"

"Why should I listen to you? How long have you been lying to me?"

"I haven't lied." Not really. Not entirely. He turns frantically, firing off another shot that only slows the husk before it hurries forward again. "Daphne's dead. The Reapers are here. Let's go!" The Reapers are firing off red beams across the land. Fires are burning, pillars of black smoke filling the skies. Everything was quiet before. Peaceful before. It was only minutes ago. "I don't have time for this," she grabs his arm, begins to shove him towards the truck. He fights back, his shotgun slamming into her jaw. It's enough to loosen her grip, enough for him to get free and run, enough for the batarian things to lunge and grab him.

He yells. His shotgun falls from his hands. They dig into him, pulling off pieces of him with their teeth. It happens so fast. His bloodcurdling screams make her blood run cold. She lifts the Paladin, lines up the shot and he goes quiet. The cannibals continue eating. Grace grabs his shotgun and goes to the truck, Max hot on her heels, jumping into the passenger seat, the way he's always done. She slams the N7 helmet onto her head. The air goes out of her lungs again. Endless black and stars. The sun burning in the distance. The air pulled out of her lungs. She blinks, shot back to the present.

She turns the key in the ignition and looks back. They're everywhere. It's over. It's all over. She turns to the front and slams on the gas.

* * *

She's running through the forest again, shapes like shifting shadows all around her, whispering to her. What are they saying? She can't make out the words, but they feel like accusations. There's someone she's chasing. She isn't sure who it is at first, but then she knows. It's _her_. That _thing_. She feels as though she's running in quicksand, but she'll catch _her_. This time she'll finish _her_.

She comes to a clearing. _She_ is there. _She_ turns to Shepard, a look of profound sadness on _her_ face. _She_ places a gun to _her_ head and pulls the trigger. _She_ falls away. Red light washes over Shepard and a blast of sound reverberates through her, deep and unforgiving, shaking her to the very core.

She bolts upright in her cot, awakening to a new nightmare. The power has gone out, leaving only the emergency lighting in the hallway. Sprinklers go off, dousing the floors and walls. Smoke wafts in through the barred window in the door. The floor shakes with tremors, as if from an earthquake. In the distance, she can hear yelling, screaming, crashing. Doubt suddenly fills her. Is she truly awake? Is this real? She closes her eyes for a moment, bites her cheek hard enough to draw blood. Yes. It's real. Fuck. She stands and moves to the door. "Vega! You have to let me out of here!"

She hears it again, the blast of a Reaper horn. A moment later, there's another, further away. Goddamn it goddamn it goddamn it, they're fucking here. She warned these assholes. She wraps her hands around the bars in the window of her door and peers out. "Vega?" There's nobody there. He's gone. That fucking meathead left her here to die? No way. No fucking way is she going out like this. She will not die in a goddamn box, like some rat caught in a trap.

The door is metal, heavy. Sturdy enough to deter a krogan. She has no weapon, no explosives. Even her bio-amp has been taken. But that doesn't mean she's helpless. She still has her biotics. Stronger than any human, shy of Jack. And that _thing_ , if she can even be considered human. The amp magnifies and focuses her powers, but it isn't strictly necessary for the simple application of force. Yes, she still has her biotics, and she still has her _gifts_ from Cerberus. The Alliance couldn't take them away. They're a part of her. They make her strong. Strong enough to take down a fucking door if need be.

She quickly dresses and laces up her boots. One thing about the Alliance. Good, sturdy boots. Even the prisoners are entitled to them. She stands and positions herself in front of the door. She takes two steps forward and drives her right heel forcefully into the door, next to the lock. The door rattles in its frame, but doesn't give. Damn it. She repositions herself and kicks again, this time clenching biotic energy and channeling it through her leg. The door shudders and groans. She smiles grimly, now confident that the door will give before she does.

Again and again, she kicks the door until it finally buckles outward and tears loose from the frame with the screech of fatigued metal. She steps over the twisted metal and into the hallway. Her leg is nearly numb. She needs a moment. What the fuck is she going to do next? How is she going to fight those things? She needs armor, a weapon. Where is the armory? Which direction? Think. _Think!_

"Dios mio!" The meathead has returned. He stares at the collapsed door, then at Shepard. "You did that?" She glares up at him as he shakes his head in amazement. "Remind me never to piss you off."

"You came back," she states flatly.

"Yeah." He tosses her the bag he carries. "Don't say I never gave you anything."

She opens the bag. Her N7 armor and bio-amp. She quickly pulls it all out and dons it while James scans the hallway. She stands. She feels like a soldier again. Well, almost. James tosses her an M-22 Eviscerator and a grenade belt. That's better. She grins as she clips the belt on. "I have to admit, Vega. You know how to treat a girl."

"Shit, Lola, you're gonna make me blush." Lola? But he's already moving away, down the hall. "Vámanos, Commander. We've got a bird to catch."


	23. Duty

They take refuge on Watson, where the long days are made interminable by the horrifying reality of the war. Hope follows the coverage on ANN, like everyone else, trying to grasp the magnitude of what's transpiring. Earth is under siege. The Alliance is on its heels. The Hegemony is in tatters. The batarians were all but wiped out before anyone even realized what was happening. Even the mighty turians seem unable to stop the inexorable advance of the Reapers. Soon Palaven will be feeling the same heat as Earth.

It's nothing short of the goddamn apocalypse. She failed. She was supposed to stop this.

 _Grace_ was supposed to stop this.

Hope fights the numbness that threatens to engulf her. It may be welcoming, but it's no friend. Much better to embrace the fear and the anger. They at least can be productive if managed, given focus. She's never given up, never allowed herself to become the victim. Not when she was a child slaving away in those mines. Not when Kai Leng thrashed her on Bekenstein. She won't start now.

It's been four days since she received the notification on her omni-tool—the one she'd been waiting for. The search program she designed to continuously dig through the detritus of the extranet finally struck gold. A picture that didn't _belong_. Not just one of the countless stock photos of Shepard that proliferated the extranet. Not even the false alarm of some new candid snapped by one of the vultures circling Shepard's impending trial. Hope's heart nearly leapt to her throat when she saw it. An image of _her._ A frown on her face, a toy _Normandy_ held aloft in one hand, a field of sunflowers stretching away in the background. The caption read _My friend Daphne knows Commander Shepard. Guess I better watch what I say around her from now on!_

Barely able to quell her excitement, she quickly traced the image to a social media page belonging to a boy in Alaska. She ran software to exhaustively analyze the image for any sign of fabrication. It came up clean. If it's a fake, it's an exceptional one. But what would be the point? It's Grace. It took her six months, but she finally found her.

She immediately started packing and making travel arrangements. Less than two hours later, the Reapers hit Earth.

She was too late.

Hope rolls over and looks at the clock. It's 3 am. Time to go. Not to Earth. Not yet. But she won't stay here. She won't keep running, hiding. She pushes the covers back and slips out of the small cot. She dresses, pausing for a moment to run her fingers over the cross-pattern of scar tissue on her right shoulder. The shoulder still aches from time to time. It's stiff, weak. She can no longer hold a sniper rifle steady. She uses the Wraith when enemies get too close.

She quietly gathers her things. Miranda and Oriana are in the other room. All the lights are off. She only needs six hours of sleep most nights. The wonder twins need significantly less. It irritates her how many waking hours they have to spend together. For six months they've stayed together, moving from system to system, evading Cerberus assassins. Sometimes they go on the offensive. Miranda somehow came into possession of a sizable cache of Cerberus data. They infiltrate Cerberus substations, gathering intel, stealing, sabotaging.

Cerberus has been busy. Somehow they ousted Aria T'Loak and took over Omega. They've ramped up their recruitment efforts and increased production across the board. Project Phoenix continues to churn out specialized forces at an accelerating pace. Dragoons, nemeses, phantoms, the list goes on. As Hope feared, the Illusive Man has started implementing Henry Lawson's 'improvements' among his low-level troops. They've seen the evidence in the faces of those they've been forced to kill.

Miranda is an icy bitch, but she knows the ins and outs of Cerberus as well as Hope does—even if previously she was naïve. She's good in a fight, and she's smart. They've saved each other more than once. They're an effective team. Even Oriana has stopped mewling and whining and started carrying her weight. Miranda's first thought was to stash her away somewhere 'safe', as if the word had any meaning, but Oriana wouldn't have it. So Miranda outfitted her with a bio-amp and began training her. _If you're going to stick around, you better make yourself useful_. Hope helps with the weapons training.

Even with Grace gone, Hope can't seem to escape the company of clones. It amuses her, as much as anything does these days. Miranda told Oriana the truth about their father, about themselves, the very night Grace ran off with the justicar. Oriana took it hard at first but in the end they grew closer. They bonded.

Hope wishes it could have been that easy with Grace, but her truth is not the same as theirs. Miranda and Oriana share a face. They're clones. They have the same DNA, but they aren't copies. They're unique individuals, with childhoods and life experiences that were earned, not imprinted. Their father created them to be his legacy, the pinnacle of human perfection. Grace was created for spare parts. Their truth comes with its own set of pressures, but it's not the same.

It's just not the same.

Hope gave Grace a life. She gave her a purpose. It's better than what would have become of her if she had left her in that lab. She couldn't tell her the truth. The truth was impossible, untellable.

She should have told her.

She misses her. She can no longer fool herself into thinking otherwise. She lies in bed at night, fighting tears, cursing her weakness. How did this happen? How did this get turned around on her? She has to get her back. For the sake of the galaxy, if not her own.

It won't be easy. Just getting to Earth will be incredibly dangerous. And she's unlikely to find her hiding out in some sunflower field in Alaska. Who knows where she's gone? _Or if she's even still alive_. The thought makes her stomach drop. _She's alive. She has to be._

She needs more to go on. She can't just roam the countryside, calling out Grace's name while Reapers busily go about harvesting the human race. She'll only have one shot at this. She needs to make it count. She'll continue monitoring every scrap of news that makes it off Earth. Somehow Grace will give her a sign. In the meantime, she has to know what happened to her after she left. She needs to understand. She'll find the justicar. Samara will tell her what she needs to know.

Everything she needs is packed. She takes the bags and sneaks past the other bedroom, making her way to the door. She makes no sound. She's a master of stealth. They won't realize she's gone until…

"You're leaving?" A whisper behind her. Oriana. _Shit_. She was hoping to avoid this.

Hope turns to her. She whispers back. "Yes."

Oriana stands in the moonlight that streams through a window. "Miri said it wouldn't be long. You're going to look for Grace, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

"Good. That's good," she nods. "Miri has her doubts, but I don't. Grace is important. We're going to need her." She step forward and extends a hand. "Good luck."

Hope takes the hand and gives it a pump. "Thanks. You two… take care of each other." Ori gives a slight smile at that. Hope releases her hand and turns to the door.

"One more thing." Hope freezes. "When you find her, tell her… Tell her I'm sorry."

Hope nods, then opens the door and disappears into the night.

* * *

The Reapers have a dragon. Grace isn't sure what else to call it. There was an ungodly howl from above, followed by the flapping of massive wings. She looked up and caught a glimpse of it through the canopy—an enormous creature with wings and a wormlike neck. It flew over her, moving toward the same sounds of a pitched battle that had drawn her into the woods.

A fucking dragon.

That's just great. As if hordes of loping zombies and flesh-eating batarian things with cannons for arms weren't enough to deal with. Never mind the skyscraper-sized cuttlefish with death rays that slice through everything. Now there's dragons too?

She thinks back to that first day, when she fled Ben's farmstead. It seems like a lifetime ago. By dusk, she came upon Whitehorse. The orange glow of the burning city illuminated the darkening sky. One of those massive cuttlefish things stalked the smoke and shadows. A towering nightmare given form, realized in fire and death, at once primordial and incomprehensible. How do you fight something like that?

Bring on the dragon. She can fight a dragon.

She wades through the woods, hacking through the worst of the underbrush with her omni-blade, ignoring the aching in her feet. When she got to Quesnel and found the bridges destroyed, she was forced to abandon the truck. She managed to find a small boat and get across the river, but she's been on foot ever since. That was three weeks ago.

Max follows her skittishly up a steep hill, growling at the air. The sounds of battle clarify themselves into a dialogue. The ratatat chatter of automatic weapons, the thunderous declarations of artillery fire, the jarring interjections of Reaper weaponry. Among the cacophony, a new, repeating pattern emerges: _Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!_ Several seconds go by, then... _Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!_ What the hell?

She's witnessed farmers and ranchers wielding shotguns and hunting rifles, making suicidal last stands against the alien invaders. She's encountered hardscrabble civilian militia groups gathering in the hills—most recently when she skirted around the suburbs of Prince George. She knows, without having to see, that this is neither of those things. This is a genuine military engagement.

She's close now. The trees have thinned, the woods abating. She pauses for a moment to open her last ration. It isn't an indulgence. She hasn't eaten in two days. She's going to need the energy. She tears off a chunk of the protein bar with her teeth and chews perfunctorily before swallowing. It doesn't taste awful. She must be even hungrier than she realized.

She takes another bite as she crests the hill and finds herself on a ridge overlooking a huge clearing. A battle rages over a military camp. Slipping her helmet off, she drops to her belly and pulls out the pair of binoculars she found in Ben's glove box. Putting them to her face, she surveys the situation. Alliance soldiers dug in behind barricades. Corpses, both human and Reaper. Overturned military vehicles and the smoking wreckage of a downed gunship. Dozens of Reaper troops, including a few turian-looking things she's never seen before.

And a fucking dragon.

She figures the soldiers must have been holding their own before, but they're in trouble now. The worm-necked creature has perched itself on a wall and begun bombarding the soldiers with explosive artillery blasts. **_Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!_** They spew from the twin cannons that jut from its maw. She studies the creature for a few seconds, its appearance verging on familiarity, until recognition emerges from that place where things she didn't know she knew reside. _Harvester_. It used to be a Harvester. The Reapers husked it, entwining machinery with flesh to create something soulless and obedient. The knowledge is chilling but unimportant.

What's important is that it's exerting constant pressure on the soldiers with those fireballs. Their barricades won't last, and it's making it all the more difficult for them to defend against the more mundane enemies. One of the soldiers mistimes his movements, picking the wrong moment to reveal himself and fire a shot at a husk climbing up the barricade. **_Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!_** He pays the price as one of the blasts turns his face to ash and his eyes to jelly.

When she came to Earth, found Ben, settled down, she hoped she was done fighting—that she could just be Grace Morgan. Live a quiet, peaceful life. Hope always insisted she was the real Shepard. Part of Grace wanted to believe that, even after everything. Shepard pounded that delusion out of her on Omega. Hope was wrong. Grace is no Shepard. But that doesn't mean she has to lie down and let these grotesque fucks murder the world.

Ben's truck had a radio. In those early days, she cycled through the dial as she drove, picking up whatever news she could. Arcturus station was destroyed. The Reapers were expanding into multiple systems, overwhelming all resistance. None of the news was good. Then the radio stations started dropping off the air, one by one, mile by mile, until there was nothing but static across the spectrum of the dial.

The truth is that Earth is alone. No help is coming. They have to get themselves out of this mess.

Two thousand miles. That's how far she's come, just to throw herself into the fray. She's about a day's walk from Vancouver, capitol city of the United North American States. She knew that if she came this way, she'd find organized military. Alliance soldiers, working together, with weapons, armor, ships. She could make herself a meaningful part of the resistance.

Here it is. Here's her chance. Her task is clear. She stands, puts her helmet on, checks her gun. Fresh thermal clip. Check. Only two left. It'll have to do. She turns to Max, tosses him the rest of the protein bar. He sniffs at it. "Stay here, Boy." He cocks his head and whines. She turns and jumps from the ridge.

Time to go slay a dragon.

* * *

The Reaper forces lie dead, bloody, mangled, burned. There's an enormous patch of scorched earth where the Harvester exploded. Once the worm-neck realized it was flanked, it tried to fly away and reposition itself. Grace didn't give it any relief, sprinting from cover to cover, ducking behind walls and overturned vehicles, staying in tune with its patterned cannon bursts as she launched attacks of her own.

It took the pressure off the soldiers, who knew exactly what to do. They focused their fire on the ground forces, keeping Grace covered. After a handful of biotic explosions and a spent thermal clip, the Harvester blew. From there, the battle was over quickly. She wasn't expecting the explosion, though. Lesson learned. She files it away for future reference. Luckily, neither she nor any of the soldiers were caught in the blast.

Afterward, exuberant soldiers shake her hand and clap her on the back. She's exhausted, spent, barely standing, but she offers up firm handshakes and weak smiles. She keeps her helmet on throughout it all. She's too tired to answer _that_ _question_ right now. After a while, Max emerges from where he was hiding and trots up to her, licking her hand.

"You with the Seventh?" one of the soldiers asks her. The seventh? Seventh what? "We radioed them for help. Didn't think anyone would get here in time, though."

"We got here as fast as we could, Corporal." A deep voice, behind her. It tickles something in her memory.

Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit.

The corporal snaps to attention and salutes. "Admiral Anderson!" Grace half-turns, then stops awkwardly, unsure what to do. Should she salute? Should she run? Her heart races out of control. She stands, frozen, unbidden memories flooding her mind. She remembers him as Captain Anderson. He selected her to be his XO when he was given command of the _Normandy_. He was someone she looked up to.

Anderson steps up to them, waving off the salute. "At ease, Corporal. Why don't you give me a moment with the soldier who stole my thunder?"

"Yes, sir." The corporal scurries away.

Anderson turns his attention to her. _Get your shit together!_ She stands smartly, facing him. He's tall. Older than she remembers. He looks her up and down, appraising her, eyes lingering momentarily on her helmet. He settles on her dirt-covered face, peering at her through her visor. He extends his hand. "What's your name, Soldier?"

She takes the hand. His grip is like iron. So much for being old. "Morgan, sir. Grace Morgan."

"Morgan." He says it like he's trying it out, then releases her hand. "I understand this squadron has you to thank for their lives." He motions to them, mingling with his own squad, working together to tend to the injured and remove the dead.

She shakes her head. "I just did what any good soldier would do, sir."

Max sits on his haunches, looking up at Anderson, tongue lolling out of his mouth.

Anderson chuckles, stooping to scratch Max behind the ears. "Solo a Harvester with biotics and a pistol? I can assure you, Morgan, that takes an exceptional soldier."

She shrugs. "I was glad to help."

He nods. "Who are you with? You get separated from your unit?"

She shakes her head. "I've been separated for a while, Cap… Admiral, sir," she stumbles. _Fuck_.

He narrows his eyes, studying her face again. "That so?" He pauses. "May I ask where you got that helmet?"

 _Kaidan Alenko gave it to me after we investigated the crash site of the SR-1. You remember him, don't you? He was our head of the marine detail._ "N7 Academy, sir. Where else?"

"What year?"

"Twenty one eighty."

"Huh." He furrows his brow. "Mind if I inspect it?"

 _Shit. Fuck. Shit._ "Right now?"

He looks around. "I think it's all right, Morgan. I don't see any hostiles about."

She hesitates, takes a deep breath, reaches up. He watches intently as she pulls off the helmet.

There's a beat as he stares at her face. She hands the helmet to him. He stares a moment longer, then takes it. He turns it over in his hands, thoroughly examining it. He hands it back to her. "You really ought to take better care of your equipment, Morgan. This helmet looks like it was rescued from an incinerator."

"Yes, sir."

He nods towards the troops. "Now, why don't you come meet your new unit?"

* * *

He's beginning to think he hates this old bird. When he first met Shepard he was antsy for adventure. He'd had enough red tape to last a lifetime. Her 'let's give them hell' attitude excited him. Here was someone else who got it. Shepard knew that sometimes you have to cut through the bureaucratic bullshit and _act._

When the _Normandy_ blew up, taking her with it, some part of him thought he was taking up the mantle on Omega. His best friend may be gone but wherever the hell she was, he liked to think she'd be proud—taking out the scumbags who thought they were above the law. The day he saw her rushing up that bridge was one of the happiest of his life.

That was a lifetime ago. Now he's back on the ship. Turians don't believe in ghosts, too practical for that. The _Normandy_ may have top of the line R &D but it can't replace all that was lost. Not only his men on Omega but Donnelly, Daniels, Grunt, Thane, Jacob, Chakwas, ... Hell, it's too depressing to go through all the names. He hasn't been able to bring himself to set foot in Engineering. He doesn't want to see what top of the line core they've put in place make it seem like Tali was never there at all.

He's had enough of death and now he's walking into the Reaper War.

Now Primarch Victus is onboard. Kaidan's at Huerta Memorial and EDI is joyriding the body that put him there. Somehow, all that seems perfectly believable in comparison to seeing Shepard again on Menae. Despite the raging fires, the sweat, the constant battle, when he saw her on that moon his stomach knotted, his blood running cold. Shepard. _Things must be desperate if they've sent you,_ he said. Shepard gritted her jaw. Liara stood still, observing.

The good news is—what's that old human proverb? About a pile of shit and finding a pony? Dr. Michel is onboard. Always liked her—good head on her shoulders, does what's right, even when thugs like Fist's men try to shake her down. She even helped Tali out long ago. He wants to catch up with her but he can't right now.

He settles into the battery, nearly throwing the Krysae sniper rifle and Phaeston down on the work bench. What the hell is he doing? He shouldn't be on this ship but Victus insisted. _You know Shepard, and I could use someone I trust._

Huh. What the hell is trust anymore? He does some rummaging in the battery and discovers his old toolkit. He pops the red toolbox open and takes out the instruments, laying them out in a spread like a torturer's arsenal. Time for calibrations. He suspects he'll be doing plenty of those.

When the door to the battery opens he keeps his attention on the tools before finally picking up the wrench. If Shepard's looking to get friendly, she has another thing coming. He still can't stand the sight of her and if not for James and his constant commentary on Menae, he isn't sure how they would have gotten through the mission to find Victus.

Garrus turns, slapping the wrench into his hand. Stops. Liara. She looks around the room, her eyes cool and studious. "I'm planning on really tricking this place out," he tells her, "maybe some curtains. Definitely more guns."

Liara smiles faintly. "I'm glad there are some things that don't change," she moves into the room and to the tools on the table. "Planning calibrations?"

"That joke never gets old, does it?" It's a way to blow off steam. He doesn't have a spar partner and he doesn't have a girl. Tightening every nut and bolt into place is reassuring. As if that alone will hold everything together. It will have to do. "I like for my wrench and I to calibrate in private." He winces. Ah. That could have been worded differently. "What's going on? Haven't seen you in years. And don't tell me those few minutes on Illium, watching you suck face with Shepard counts." Liara could do better.

"I suppose it doesn't." She regards him. "Things between the two of you seem... strained."

"I'm not a hard guy to please, Liara. I expect one thing: competence. Not too much to ask around these parts. It wasn't before." He shakes his head. "I wondered why you didn't join us on the suicide mission. It hurt Shepard. But I'm glad you didn't come. I'd hate for you to be another name on the Memorial Wall."

Liara's lips thin. "Was it that bad?"

"You must know given your...resources." The Shadow Broker. Liara. He never would have called it. That sweet and introverted girl who joined the _Normandy_ the first time is long gone. Every piece of her has been replaced by a numbing chilliness. She's colder, even, then when he met her on Illium. "Look, I wouldn't be here unless Victus had insisted. Shepard saved a lot of men on Menae but now that she's gone we'll go back to losing four hundred men every half hour."

"You don't think we can win?"

"If you'd asked me two years ago—I would have said we can take anything. But Shepard, she's..." Garrus frowns. "I'm not sure who she is. Before we met today, the last time we interacted was when I threw her into her fish tank and she pulled a gun on me. This wasn't exactly a happy reunion."

"I got that," she says quietly.

"Hell, maybe I'm being too hard on her. I lost my squad on Omega and she doesn't fault me for that. It was a suicide mission for a reason. There's something though. I can't put my finger on it. She's changed." He sighs.

"It's possible you idolized her too much. In the beginning you had ... I'm not sure how to put it. A sense of hero worship with her."

"Look me in the eye and tell me you don't feel it too."

"She died." Her eyes only skirt over his. "Death changes a person." Liara sounds rehearsed, as if it's a line she's said long enough to finally begin believing it herself.

"Fine. Make me feel crazy. Did you visit her, on Earth?"

"No. I was..." She touches the tools on the workshop table. "Busy." Garrus grunts. "You've never struck me as the sort to take orders against your better judgment. Even from a primarch. Things have changed between you and Shepard. It must feel lonely." Her voice is absent. "Why are you here? Why, if you question her?"

"I'm hoping I'm wrong." But he doesn't think he is. He's always considered himself to be a good judge of character. He doesn't know anymore. To doubt her. Shepard. It seems impossible. "But if I'm not—you know as well as I do that we're the best shot at stopping this thing. The _Normandy_ , your network, this Crucible thing—whatever it is. I can't sit this war out. Whenever there's trouble, Shepard's in the thick of it." A beat. He turns her earlier question back on her. "Do you believe we can win this?"

Her smile is saturated in sadness. He sees the sadness more than that smile. "I don't know."

* * *

Exhausted soldiers are cloistered around burning barrels of trash, trying to beat back the chill of the night. Those things are out there. Anderson walks the FOB, searching the perimeter for any weak spots. Men and women are up on a ramshackle bridge, peering into the darkness. Bullets fire in the distance. He hardly hears it anymore.

Shepard warned them about the Reapers. No one wanted to listen. _I told you so_ rings hollow on the graves of millions. The survivors are coming apart. They won't leave their loved ones who have been killed. They sit and stare, catatonic.

They couldn't have anticipated this. As hard as he tries, he can't think of anything they could have done to prepare. There's no preparing for something like this. The Reapers are crippling any defense they attempt to enact. Soldiers whimper in the night, crying for their mothers, dying without medication. Everything's gone to hell.

He narrows his eyes on the figure in the distance. Wrecked cars have been stacked in a crude barricade near a section of buildings that once dotted the skyline. Now they're artifacts of what once was. Grace Morgan stands there, looking into the black. Her eyes constantly search. The husky, Max, sits at her feet. N7 helmet. CAT6 armor. It's a hell of a thing.

 _Anderson, listen to me. There's someone out there. Someone who looks like me. That must be who Kaidan saw._

He thought Shepard was losing it. Dying. Coming back. Being locked up in solitary. Son of a bitch. She was right. He shouldn't have doubted her.

A cold gust of wind chases dirt and tattered newspapers along the base. Anderson moves to the woman, his uneasiness growing. The soldiers like her. She's a demon on the battlefield. He's never seen another soldier like that before. No one except for Shepard. "Morgan." She turns her head slowly to face him, reservation lining her features. He's no fool. Beneath the mud and dirt he sees her. The exact same face, the same build, the same voice.

"Admiral."

It's her. It has to be her. _But it isn't._ She says she's Grace Morgan. _I just have one of those faces._ Bullshit. Trouble is, lines are down everywhere. It's impossible to verify anything she says. What little power and resources they have can't be wasted on this. So the woman's a liar. But she's helped them, time and time again to beat the Reaper forces back. Hell, that's got to stand for something. "You were in the N7 program and CAT6. That's impressive."

She shuffles where she stands, even as she holds his gaze. She switches the helmet to her other hand. "Nothing compared to this."

"N7 and CAT6—those two don't mix. N7 is for the best of the best. CAT6 is run by sociopaths who couldn't hack it in the Alliance, dishonorably discharged. Criminals, murderers. Which are you?"

She stares at him. He sees her retreating within. "Don't see how it matters in times like this."

"What was your squad name?"

Grace scoffs. "Razor. Spear. None of your damned business. I'm here now."

She is. And despite his doubt, he's glad she is. "Yeah, we're damned lucky to have you."

A flicker of a smile touches her lips. He's seen Shepard smile like that before. Her smiles were always like that—small—guarded. There's a strange quivering in his heart. This is dangerous. Shepard—he's known her for a damned long time. He followed and guided her career. He never met anyone like her. Never had a daughter—he supposes… she came closest to what he might have wanted. Some part of her always looked at him that way too. Her childhood was troubled. She lost her father young.

"Huh. I doubt we'd be able to keep this base if not for you." She looks to the stars. "This base. Earth. We're not going to lose it."

That strikes too close. He steps into her, a fist balled. "Who the hell are you?" he menaces. Her hazel eyes are steady, meeting his eyes, falling away. She steps back. He grabs her arm. "You look like Shepard. You talk like Shepard."

"I'm. Not. Shepard." Her voice is as dangerous as Shepard's.

Max gets to his feet and walks around Anderson, wagging his tail. Anderson ignores the dog but reminds himself to bring him some of the dog biscuits he found earlier. Can't stand the sight of dogs going hungry. "Yeah? You could have fooled me." He shakes his head. Her eyes are inscrutable. Shepard was always like that. A bit of a wild card, a viper, until she strikes. You had to dig at her to get her to bite. "Eden Prime. Virmire." A flash in her eyes, as if a knife in her side, and she backs off. "Walking away, soldier?" What the hell is she? "You walk away, you can keep walking, leave this camp."

She stops and looks at him. "Your men need me. They need _us._ You won't let me walk away. You're a better man than that, Admiral." She whistles and turns. "Here, Max."

Max whines, licks Anderson's hand and follows after her. Goddamn it. Whatever that thing is—she is—she's right. They need her. He can't let her walk away. He'll work with her. For now.

* * *

Miranda's eyes snap open not two hours after she's gone to sleep. The ceiling fan spins lazily, wobbling and making a clacking noise. She throws the thin blanket off and swings her legs to the side, her feet touching the dirty floor. The tanktop sticks to her. She pulls at it. Her skin and the cloth are warm to the touch. She stands, goes to the window blinds and stares out. The suns are like magma. The sky is similarly orange. She wipes at her neck, slick with sweat and glances to Oriana, asleep on her side on the thin mattress.

Oriana's gotten tough but thin. Her eyes are darkening, losing their spark. She's seen too much, too fast, experienced things she shouldn't have. Miranda joined Cerberus to prevent this. She left Cerberus to prevent this. She has to get Oriana out of this life. Somewhere safe, where she'll be protected. But where?

Her omni-tool lights up. Miranda leaves the tiny bedroom to the living room where the rickety furniture is located. She sits, the plastic wrap of the couch uncomfortable against her bare legs. She fires up the omni-tool. Another email from Liara. They've been in touch for months now. Liara sends information her way. Miranda tells her what she's seeing. It's a partnership united against Cerberus. Shepard doesn't know—which is… curious.

 _Specialist Traynor has uncovered some concerning transmissions she thinks may be tied to Cerberus. She suspects they may be headed to Grissom Academy. Shepard is… uninterested in pursuing the matter. Do you have any idea what Cerberus could want there?_

Grissom? The Alliance school for biotics. Jack is there. Miranda pushes damp hair back from her face. So. The young specialist is using her talents to usurp Cerberus. Last year, she would have taken issue with her. The woman's clever, to say the least. Miranda thinks of her briefly, her unreturned emails. Traynor eventually gave up. It's for the best. They both have urgent matters to attend to. If Shepard's last run was any indication, she's likely already bedded the woman.

Miranda stands, irritated. Shepard needs to be focused. If Cerberus is going to Grissom… it must be related to the Phantom project. Young, powerful biotics would make for a considerable boon. Unfortunately… she's seen what Cerberus has been doing to its soldiers. Rigged up like time bombs. Their strength is beyond the norm. Her father's enhancements have been used to beef up the troops. Bastard.

She can't risk Oriana. She won't. No doubt Illusive Man has made promises to her father. She won't walk into their trap. Oriana is safe for now but for how much longer? It's easier to slip by undetected on her own but she can't say that Rasa's keen eye won't be missed. She's a hell of a sniper—or was, if the grimace on her face when she lifted the M-97 Viper was any indication. She swore softly under her breath. That arm of hers never healed properly. By the end Rasa was relying just as much on the Wraith. _Dead is dead,_ she would say.

It's funny, how two Cerberus loyalists were so very good at stopping – and evading when necessary – the organization they once revered. Now Rasa is gone. Off to find Grace. She must have found her by now. That woman… Shepard's face… her eyes—well. Miranda never knew her the first time. The last time she saw Grace—she had that same anger that fills Shepard. Strange. She's only meant to be a copy. Rasa is optimistic. Still… if not for the clone, would she have Oriana?

Grace can fight. That's something. She lifts the omni-tool, the holographic keyboard spilling out. She types a quick response.

 _I believe I know what they want. I'll forward it to a colleague. She has a friend—they might be able to do something._

If she gets it in time. If they get to Grissom before it's too late. She picks the Predator off the coffee table and sits. And waits. Liara needs help. Maybe Grissom and Jack need help. But it can't be her. She sends the information to Rasa. Whatever Rasa thinks of Liara—she'll act if she has a conscience. _She'll act when you won't?_ It's different. Rasa has no one. Nothing to lose. Only ambition. If Rasa and the clone fail then…

At least they'll still have Shepard.

* * *

It's the first time she visits him since he landed himself in Huerta Memorial. Garrus and Liara keep asking about it, keep getting that look on their faces when she tells them she hasn't seen him yet.

The Reaper War is bigger than Kaidan. Everyone is focused on appearances. So she visits him. He's alive. Which she already knew. He no longer looks like something she's just kicked the shit out of. That's… good.

If he takes the Spectre appointment then likely he'll be on his own, away from her, away from her ship. Kaidan's got a stick up his ass. He's all about brass, conduct, regulations. And if it wasn't for Eva Coré he'd still be charged with the _Normandy_. If not for Eva, he might have kicked her off her goddamn ship.

 _Huh. Didn't think you'd be stopping by to see me, Shepard._

Shepard. Not 'Commander'. She wasn't officially reinstated until his ass was knocked out cold. Hackett gave her the title, like a handout, after they dragged Kaidan to the Citadel. The anger rises.

She buries her hands in her pockets and moves. She has to stay calm. It's hard to stay calm. She gives everything and gets nothing but mistrust. The Collector mission could have gone better but she got the job done. She saved colonists. She stopped the Reapers. And for what? To be questioned at every turn?

They refuse to reinstate her but Kaidan gets an offer. Are they trying to replace her? With him? _They can try._ She doesn't trust him.

Kaidan's aloof. His words guarded. She's glad he's okay. He wanted her advice on being a Spectre. She doesn't think he's got what it takes. Too by the book. Too sensitive. The responsibility would cripple him. Leading around a few biotic brats isn't enough to qualify him.

 _They're trying to replace you. All of them._

The thought curdles in her head. She takes the Citadel transit to the embassies. She moves to the Spectre offices but her palm print doesn't pick up. The liquid display is cold and unresponsive against her hand.

 _Spectre authorization needed_.

Fuck the Council. Fuck Anderson. The anger boils over. Shadows and red everywhere. A splitting headache that seems to have settled permanently throbs violently. She turns around. Udina exits the office, looking around him wildly, his eyes settling on her.

"Shepard. We need to talk."

"What now, Udina?"

But they each have their parts to play. This is Udina's—to serve as an intermediary. And this is hers—to be the tip of the spear. The door shuts behind them, the room darkens. A hologram manifests from the floor. Udina's own private QEC. It must have cost a fortune.

The Illusive Man stands tall, crisp, a cigarette in hand. Shepard can practically smell it. He settles his eyes, far seeing, all-knowing, on her. "Shepard." He smiles. "I'm glad you could make it."

* * *

"Anyone ever tell you, you drive like a maniac?" Anderson asks. Grace chuckles, the pickup truck speeding through the broken wasteland, kicking up dust devils. The landscape is obliterated. They wear scarfs around their neck and mouths to try to block the polluted air, the stench of decay. The scream of the Reapers is always in her ears. As is Ben's. She killed him. She killed him. She thinks of the cannibals tearing him apart, thinks of Daphne in that broken field of sunflowers. Goddamn Reapers. "What's the matter, Anderson? Old age getting to you? I can pull over and you can walk the rest of the way."

"That how you talk to Admirals?"

"I'm not in the Alliance anymore, remember?"

This is easy. Unsettlingly easy. Being with him. Talking with him. She was horrified when she saw him. Excited. Anderson was alive. And if Anderson was alive, anything was possible. They can stop this war. They can stop the Reapers. The Wraith sits between them. It's an upgrade from the hunting rifle of before. Anderson looks at it from time to time. _Is he going to shoot me? Will I let him?_ She goes through the numerous ways she could kill him, though none of them make her feel good. Her stomach is in knots.

They both know what she is. A fake. They're making the best of it. His questions get under her skin. She's decided the best tactic for the meantime is to make herself indispensable. She'd like to see to Liara, to Hope but she can't leave Earth behind, won't leave Earth behind. It's her home. It was a luxury to stay for half a year, to meet the people, to breathe in the fresh air and the smell of grass. Now everything's in decay. Animal carcasses litter the land. She can't lose it. Won't lose it to those fucking machines.

Max sits in the back of the pickup truck, his head poking in through the small back window every now and then.

"So tell me about it," Anderson says, "your time in the Alliance."

She scowls, gripping the wheel tighter. He knows about her time in the Alliance. It's been bleeding back to her since coming to Earth. Amongst the nightmares it was easy to forget, those infrequent memories of before, blinding and disorienting. They've been seeping into her slowly. The day Anderson took her hand. _Welcome to the Alliance._ He saved her. Chewed her ass out just as often, when she screwed it up, when she went over the line. _This here stands for something. We stand for something. No one ever said doing the right thing was easy._ It was after Torfan. They pinned every medal they could on her. Anderson didn't like it. She'd been trying to scrub the blood off her hands for days. _I got it done. That's all that matters._

"Not worth talking about," she ducks, the light in her eyes, and turns the pickup truck into a gated area in a sprawl of land. Untouched. Clean. "Look at that." Anderson looks around him, opens the truck door, doesn't shut it. Grace steps out, taking the Wraith, clipping it to her back before unholstering the Paladin. Anderson holds the M-8 Avenger. Max hops out, alert.

"Nice and quiet," he tells her.

She nods. They move forward, quickly but carefully. A large farm with barred doors waits. They circle the perimeter. Nothing. Grace hears voices. She presses her ear to the door. A wooden bar keeps it shut. They move to opposite ends, lifting the fifteen foot bar and setting it down. They pull the massive farm doors open. The doors groan every inch until they step inside. It smells of piss, sweat and vomit.

Anderson stops. "God, almighty—"

Horses lie dead, swarming with flies. Anderson presses the scarf closer to his face. Cages line the walls, men, women and children stuffed inside, bone thin and gaunt.

There's an inhuman shriek. One of the cages bursts open. Husks. They sprint at them, kicking hay up. Teeth bared. A Reaper horn sounds. More screams fill the air. Grace sends a group of husks flying back, impaling them on the farm tools hung on the walls. One of the husks gets stuck on a hook. It dangles there screaming, looking at its arms. Grace ignores it. "We've got to get them out of here—"

"There's more on the way!" Anderson fires off clean, precise shots. Cannibals and marauders stream into the farm. They drop but not quickly enough. The imprisoned men and women are desperate, holding on to the bar cells, begging for help.

Grace sweats. No key. "Stand back," she blasts the locks off. Ammo is a precious commodity. Wasting it on locks seems just that. "Call the FOB for pickup," she tells Anderson. He's reaching for the walkie at his shoulder when a marauder grabs him, Anderson ducks, slams the butt of the assault rifle into its face. A grunt from the marauder and Anderson leaps back. The marauder lunges and rips the radio from him. They're swarming around him.

She takes a step back, runs, springs in a biotic haze. Time slows. She's still not used to this. The blast flings the marauders and cannibals back. Blood drips down her nose. She unclips the shotgun and fires at point blank range. "Get them out of here, Anderson!" Anderson looks behind him. In the darkness there's a sliver of sunlight slipping through. Another door. He yanks the doors to the remaining cells open, ushers them to the rear.

The husks keep coming. One of them grabs her arm, another one grabs her neck. Biotic energy flows through her. She can't shake them off. She fires at the ravager coming around the corner. Its sac bursts open, swarmers spilling out in sticky goo. "Get off!" she rights herself, a wave of biotic energy hurling them away.

The ravager crawls forward. _I should have gotten rid of those goddamned things._ She swings the shotgun around and pulls the trigger.

Click.

Click.

Click.

She's not used to the shotgun. She pales. The ravager fires. The blast melts right through her shields, pummeling into her. She flies back. Lands hard. The air goes out of her. She wheezes. Everything's black and red. She can't see. Everything's white. No air in her lungs. Stars. Space. Everything's fire. Bullets. Bullets. A ghastly scream. _Shepard!_ Not Shepard. _Shepard!_

"Shepard!" Anderson kneels next to her, slaps her face hard. Grace blinks, stares at him. He swims. His face is relief. Guilt. Embarrassment. She heaves for air. He yanks her to her feet. "Come on. We've got to get moving. They're outside."

"Everyone all right?" her words are small, breathless.

"Look to be. And you took care of the Reaper forces." She looks back. The ground is splattered in blood, limbs, dead cannibals, husks, marauders. The one on the hook hangs there, swinging back and forth, clutching at its chest. "Got to the radio on the truck. The FOB's on their way with transport. Gave me a hell of a scare back there."

"Guess I owe you one."

"More than one."

* * *

She lies on the pickup truck bed, staring up at the stars. Her side burns fiercely, despite the medi-gel Anderson forced her to take. _We lose you, we lose a hell of a lot more than just one person._ Maybe. The FOB is in high spirits. Families have been reunited. Their food supplies are almost nonexistent but none of the soldiers hesitate to rip into the MREs, to give their few rations to the starved men and women.

There's a weight on the truck and soon she sees Anderson climb in. Max is on his heels, having taken to following him around. "You like the stars?" he asks. Grace looks at him. She has a love, hate relationship with the stars. They remind her of her death. They remind her of Hope and Liara. She folds an arm behind her neck and says nothing. "Where'd you come from?"

Junk DNA. A Cerberus facility. She shrugs.

Anderson has a box of dog biscuits. Max sits patiently at his feet, though his tail twitches. Anderson throws him a little bone biscuit, which Max eats greedily before wagging his tail, slapping Grace in the face with it. Anderson laughs. "Good boy." He looks at Grace. Grace sits up painfully, leaning back against the bed. "You got anyone you're worried about?"

"Yeah." She says grudgingly.

"They on Earth?"

She hopes not. What's Hope doing? Trying to get to Shepard? Trying to stop this? Or hiding out somewhere? What about Liara? She was angry last time they met. _Let them go. You'll never see them again. Focus on the war._ "No." Anderson nods, gets ready to stand. "They're up there." She nods at the stars. Sighs. "I wish things were different."

"Everyone does." He sits next to her. "I've got someone, too. These are the end days—"

"Hey," she slaps his leg. "This isn't over yet."

"Yeah, you're right." He doesn't seem convinced. "Actually—she's somewhere you might have gone—if you'd been born a few years later." She winces but he doesn't notice. "Grissom Academy. Sometimes—being in the Alliance—doing the right thing—you have to give things up." He takes his hat off and slaps it back onto his head. "Sometimes the cost seems too high."

Grace bites her tongue. "What's her name?"

"Kahlee Sanders. Hell of a soldier. One of the most brilliant minds I've known. When this war is over…"

"You'll find her again."

He smiles tightly. He wants to believe. "It'll be a long war."

"Then let's end it quickly."

* * *

Imorkan. The dangerous, dirty version of Omega. The energy is frantic. Shuttles and ships zoom past each other. Near collisions happen constantly but no one bats an eye. It's been weeks since the Reapers hit. They're decimating the galaxy. Soon, she'll have nothing to feed on.

Music plays. Not the frenetic, pulsing beats of Omega but a slow rhythm, a siren's call, beckoning explorers to its depraved depths. There are pirates everywhere. Mercenaries. Murderers and criminals, on the run everywhere except here. They think they're safe and they're wrong.

Imorkan is darker than Omega, smaller. The architecture is as frantic, as if it were built out of desperation instead of design.

The walls squeeze together here, become gulfs there. The ceilings spike in certain areas and in others, most have to duck their heads to get through. Gamblers, Red Sand junkies, brothels as far as the eyes can see. "Hey beautiful," one of the asari call out to her, "looking for company? I can tell you're all knots."

"Does this life satisfy you?" Morinth asks, her tone even, her eyes glass. "Seek other pursuits before I consider you worthy of my attention."

The asari shrinks back and Morinth keeps walking. Tall halls. Narrow halls. Shouting, screaming, moans and groans of pleasure. She walks into a brothel, the walls and lights painted red. The people see her, they know her, they don't meet her eyes. They get out of her way and even the owners make it a point to press against the walls.

She climbs the curved steps to the second level. The rusty steps creak under her weight. Her destination is on the left. She moves with languid determination, her hand finding the door and turning the lock. Imorkan, where you can get anything you want, for a price. The two men turn to look at her with wide eyes, the girl, some little asari thing, not even to her tenth year runs to the corner of the room and whimpers.

"Hey, we paid—"

Morinth unclips the M-9 Tempest at her side and shoots him at point blank range. His head splatters. She almost laughs. The girl in the corner shrieks. Morinth pays her no mind and advances on the turian. He reaches for his gun and trips over his loosed pants, sprawling to the ground. He looks ridiculous. "You should probably look away," Morinth tells the girl. She unclips a knife from her side and sets her eyes on the turian. "Now it's my turn to dig into you."

He screams.

An hour later she exits, the girl's small hand in her own as she leads her out of the establishment. _There is a shuttle headed to the Citadel. The appropriate fees have been paid and an escort will guide you there. May the goddess watch over you._

Morinth goes to the bar and sits. She orders her usual drink and drops in her usual dose of Hallex Prime. The drink sizzles purple and she drinks it. She likes how it amplifies and dulls things. It's like dancing in the Void. It's like fucking in a cemetery. It's like feeding on a monster. The galaxy is going to hell. She's going to be hungry soon.

"Samara!"

Morinth turns her head. Ah. The clone's guardian. Hope. Rasa. Lilah. Whatever it is she goes by these days. Her eyes aren't concealed like before. There's fire in them. Morinth nods at the seat opposite of her but Hope, Rasa, Lilah, doesn't sit. _Does she know who she is?_ Morinth wonders. With so many identities it must get confusing.

"You're a difficult woman to track down."

Morinth swirls the drink in her glass. Hope's voice is far away and too close. She can smell her fragrance, her desperation. It's intoxicating. "You live. Thank the goddess."

"The justicar is on a warpath," Hope says. "And people think the Reapers are dangerous." Morinth smiles at her. "I don't care what you do. Grace is on Earth. She was gone, for months. I presume with you. What were you doing?" Morinth shrugs gently. "I need answers."

"Why?"

"Because she's on Earth and we need her. We need her to win this war. Commander Shepard isn't going to stop this."

Samara's eyes spark. "She put a stop to Grace." Hope freezes. The air sucked out of her lungs. Samara considers wrapping her fingers around her jacket, drawing her close, drawing her breath, sipping her slowly. "Grace was devastated when she found out the truth. We went around to Cerberus facilities and set matters right. And on Omega, Grace found Shepard." She finishes the drink and sets the glass aside. "The battle was over quickly. I found myself… disappointed."

"…What…"

"It wasn't fair. Grace didn't even look human when Shepard was through with her." Cold, even tone, a warm smile on her lips. "What makes you think she's alive?"

"Grace is alive," Hope says through gritted teeth. "She's on Earth, fighting those things. I've heard things in the news… I'm pretty sure it's her. I need to get to her. This war needs her but not down there." Morinth takes a breath. "I need your help. Earth is… I don't know how long it will take to find her. You stood against the Collectors and she trusts you. She won't come if it's just me asking. Please."

Samara nods. "I will help you."

* * *

The elevator doors open and Shepard, free of the blood and guts that decorated her hardsuit earlier, steps out wearing an N7 Hoodie and her Alliance uniform. _Breathe, Samantha. She may be the hero of the Citadel but she's a human being like anyone else._ Shepard meets her eyes and moves to the information terminal.

Samantha steps away from her own station. _Breathe in. Then breathe out._ "Oh. Commander Shepard. I was hoping to have a moment of your time." Shepard keeps her eyes on the terminal, shifting slightly so Samantha can't see her screen. Eventually she looks at her. Samantha straightens, swallows the lump in her throat. "Erm—how was Sur'Kesh? The weather seems—quite tropical. And with all that blood spilling—it must be hotter—"

"Traynor, what do you want? Spit it out."

Samantha takes an audible breath. "Right. Well... I was doing a little bit of digging..." Shepard steps away from the terminal. For a moment Samantha tricks herself into believing that Shepard is going to give her her undivided attention. Instead she starts walking away. Samantha walks quickly with her. "Oh—yes, a little bit of digging. There appears to be some strange activity happening in Benning."

Shepard takes the steps down to the third floor and Samantha follows after her. "From what I've gathered it looks like Cerberus is kidnapping civilians."

"Why would they do that? They've got a war to win."

The question momentarily stumps Samantha. The answer is so simple that she can't help but believe it's a trick, that she must reevaluate. "I can't say I know their plans. But 'because they're bad' is my guess." Shepard narrows her eyes on her. "Um. Ma'am."

Shepard stops in front of the Memorial Wall and rubs at her forehead. _Oh, bloody hell. Am I giving her a headache?_ She supposes she's always heard most celebrities skew towards the douchey side, but she hadn't expected it from Commander Shepard. _She's the Butcher of Torfan. Were you expecting cookies? Tea parties?_ She told Shepard about Grissom and Shepard ignored it. She told her about the lab on Sanctum and Shepard brushed that off too.

"Specialist." Shepard says. Samantha stands straighter and tries not to wince. "It's my understanding that you're here from R&D? And it's your duty to let me know when I've got messages or anyone on the vidcom for me, is that correct?"

 _I'm not a bloody yeoman, I'm a communications specialist. That's just an added bonus. I dare you to say **any** of that to her. _ "Yes, Ma'am." she stammers.

"And when I want you to put communication through for me, you do that, don't you?"

"Ah, yes."

"The bulk of your military experience has been in a research lab, hasn't it? Do you understand that we have a war to win here?" Shepard steps closer. Samantha supposes this is a rhetorical question and Shepard doesn't actually want her to respond. _First step. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry._ "You know what I'm focused on? Stopping the Reapers. That's it. This ship is state of the art. _Every. Second. Counts._ You're asking me to jeopardize _billions_ of lives so I can check out some kooky signal you've uncovered? A signal, that if true, may save, at best, hundreds of lives?"

Samantha swallows. Her face is red. And numb. All of her has gone numb. She may have peed herself. She's not sure. "I'm sorry, Ma'am—"

"What's that, Specialist?"

Samantha looks up at her, but it's difficult to meet her eyes. "I said, I'm sorry, Ma'am. I thought—"

"You thought _what_?"

 _I thought you wanted to help people._ But the thought is silly. Shepard wants to save the most people she can. That's important too. Samantha averts her eyes entirely. There are a lot of names on that Memorial Wall. _Yours might be joining it in a few seconds at the rate you're going._

The energy dissipates from Shepard. She exhales and buries her hands in the pockets of her hoodie. "Sorry. Look, you may not get where I'm coming from but trust me. I know what I'm doing. Cerberus is a distraction. We need to focus on the bigger picture. Play all the strategy games you want, but those same principles don't work here." _Ouch. Low blow._ "Do your job. Nothing else. If I need something, I'll come to you. Got it?"

"Yes, Ma'am." She salutes. "I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"Dismissed."

Samantha turns tail and runs. Shepard stands at the Memorial Wall. Liara approaches, stepping beside her, staring at all the names on the wall. Garrus wasn't joking. Goddess. Tali'Zorah. Sweet, sweet Tali. She was young, even for short lived species. Liara glances at Shepard who glowers at the Memorial. Who erected the monument, Liara wonders. Was it Shepard's idea or Admiral Anderson's? "You were a little harsh with her."

"From the woman who threatened to flay someone alive." Shepard looks sidelong at her. "I see that you're still snooping. Can't say I'm surprised."

It's going to be one of those days. Liara mentally prepares herself. There are days when Shepard tries to be close to her, tries to have conversations with her on where they are, where they will go. Liara has been evasive. She isn't sure of anything. Then there are other days, like this one, when Shepard is hostile, when she wonders if Shepard secretly despises her. Liara doesn't know which is more difficult. "We should follow the lead she uncovered."

"We've got bigger issues at hand. You know that."

"The Illusive Man is relentless. Any ground we can take from him betters our chances."

"I disagree." She sighs. "What is it with the yeomen on this ship?" Liara doesn't correct her. "Better looking than the last one, at least. Maybe I should take her for a ride, too."

And now she's attempting to bait her. Liara won't bite. "What do you think about Wreav? He's... different from Wrex."

"He's a maniac. That might be the kind of thing we need. If we cure the genophage, he'll lead the fight against the Reapers." Shepard crosses her arms. "But the Dalatrass had a point. Wreav's a thug. Can we really let the krogan population spike again? They'll stop the Reapers and then run us all out of the galaxy."

"We need the krogan." We need the cure, is what she means, but she understands Shepard's concerns, as well as the Dalatrass's. The situation makes her head hurt. "Progress on the Crucible is going slower than anticipated." Shepard doesn't react. "The salarians have good scientists—"

"We don't need them."

"What do you suggest?" The Crucible needs scientists. Isn't that what everything is riding on?

Shepard says nothing. Liara turns away. Shepard grabs her wrist, pulls her close. Liara takes a small breath. "We need to talk." Shepard's eyes are fiery, her voice gone low. Liara's throat goes dry. She tugs her arm free. "You owe me that." Liara says nothing. "You don't respond to my emails, you don't visit me on Earth. I was locked up for half a year," she menaces. Liara says nothing. "If it's over, tell me it's over."

"This isn't a conversation we should have out here," Liara says. She walks away, to her room, her office, her network, her livelihood. Walking makes it easier to breathe. The door to her sanctuary opens and Liara feels the air returning to her lungs. As soon as Shepard walks in, the door sliding shut behind her, it ceases. "Shepard, I have work."

"Work. You always have work. You always have the network. I got you all of this," she hisses.

Liara stands still. She could argue with her. She could say she made her way up in Illium using her own resources, her own skills, but at the end of the day, it was Shepard's Cerberus intel that led her to the Shadow Broker. Perhaps it's right to lord it over her. Maybe Liara only resents that it's true. "Thank you." Ice.

Shepard stares at her. "Did you see something?" Her intonation makes it a declarative rather than a question. The emotion, the anger, the suspicion is gone from her voice. "The night we spent together after we beat the Shadow Broker. We melded—did you see something? In my head? In my memories? Did something happen-" For a moment, she looks frightened.

"No. No." She shakes her head. "I saw nothing."

* * *

Wesker goes down. He falls like a sack of potatoes next to her. She ducks, feeling the whip of the bullets above her. She presses against the little cover she has—the remains of a building long battered by Reaper beams. Bricks, wires and concrete are scattered around her. She lifts her head, throws out a singularity field, detonating it.

The explosion is deafening. Ears ringing, she jumps out of cover, sprinting to the cannibals beginning to feed off the fallen husks and marauders. Two pumps of the shotgun and they're reduced to brown muck and blood. The other soldiers shout, come over, pat her back, muss her hair. Idiots. _So stop smiling._ "Look around for survivors," she says to them, circling a hand in the air. Wrap things up.

"Hey, look, we've got a bird," one of the men shouts.

Grace looks up. A shuttle is beginning its descent. The people of Earth are beginning to look at them as if they're dinosaurs. Months in and Grace still hasn't seen one make it out of range of a Reaper beam. Shuttles are a rarity now. "Get to work," she says.

If it's a shuttle, no doubt it's someone looking to take something. Supplies. Food. Or refugees looking for shelter. Things aren't sustainable and the Reapers are pressing closer. They're harvesting civilians. Turning them into husks. Using their own against them. Sick. _Effective._ Disgusting. She stoops by Wesker. Young, blond and dead. She thinks of Ben and Daphne. Fuck this war. Fuck the Reapers.

She massages her head, closes Wesker's eyes. Hears the whoops of the soldiers but ignores them. She pats Wesker's pockets, pulls out a few thermal clips. She'll bring them to Anderson. They can add them to the small heap they have. Night is falling and Reaper attacks have increased. They're vulnerable then. Men and women take shifts through the night but everyone's exhausted. She can't remember the last time she got more than a few hours of rest.

The click of a gun. Heat at her back. She's being watched. She pulls the Paladin, turns.

Stops.

Stars.

The air goes out of her lungs. Hope. Samara. _Morinth._ Hope's jaw is set tight. She doesn't look as if she breathes. Morinth is still, her glassy eyes searching. The last time she saw her… Strange how the violence returns, a memory on her skin. Her jaw throbs. Grace stares. The Paladin still lifted. The other soldiers mirror her now, weapons readied on the women.

"Say the word, Morgan," one of them mutters. He's excited. Ready to prove himself.

"Grace," Hope says tightly. A reprimand. A plea.

Neither Morinth nor Hope seem to notice the group around them. Grace hardly notices them. The air builds in her lungs, burns. Hope's here. Alive. They both are. A sharp exhalation before she sucks the air back in again.

"Clean shot," Grace hears another soldier say.

Her fingers tremble. Liar. Liars. Sociopaths. Both of them. She exhales again, energy depleted. Her arm falls back to her side. "Weapons down," she commands. All the soldiers lower their weapons. Hope closes her eyes and takes an unsteady breath.

* * *

Their fortifications are falling apart. Grace picks up an empty foot locker. She'll fill it full of debris. It'll be a small hurdle until they can find something better. Hope follows after her. Grace recognizes her steps still. Soft. Cautious. "You have to listen to me," Hope says. Grace ignores her and keeps moving, setting the foot locker in front of the failing barricades. She picks up pieces of the broken building and dumps them into the foot locker. "You can't stay here. You have to come with us."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"What are you doing here?" Her voice is thick with frustration. "Do you know how long I've been looking for you?"

"I don't care." Grace can't look at Hope. It's impossible to be still. To listen. She can't. Hope's voice is a live wire. If she lets it in, it'll wrap around her. If she listens she'll be convinced. "Earth needs me. Anderson needs me. This base needs me. I'm not going giving that up because you want me to run around and play Shepard."

"What do you think you've been doing here? Have you heard those soldiers talking about you?"

She has. They look alike. It's natural. A toppled car has been knocked onto its side. Taking a breath she outstretches an arm, lifting it with a biotic kick, stacking it on top of the others.

Hope crosses her arms. Grace thinks of CAT6, of the disappointed instructors. "Samara told me what happened."

Grace stills. _Samara?_ So. She still doesn't know. The memories spike, digging like daggers. _Morinth drags her down the halls of Omega, an arm tightening around her waist, pulling her up. Her voice is different. Grace's knuckles drag on the dirty floor. She can't speak. Can only think. Just let me go. Just let me die._

The sky is a dark blue, the stars beginning to shine. It's been nearly a year since she saw Hope. She's been thinking of her that long. Dreaming of that blade going into her. Her eyes. Her lips. The heat of her skin. _I worried._ Liar. It would have meant she cared.

"I know how it went down. It doesn't matter."

Grace can't look at her. Hear her. Bear her disappointment. Ice trickles down her neck, her face burns. It feels like an eternity. Grace turns, faces her, searches for Hope's contempt but only sees determination. She wants to kick it out of her. "You wasted your time. All the operations, all the training, it was pointless."

Hope looks tired. "Something's wrong with Shepard."

"Not my problem." She moves ahead to gather the larger chunks of rubble that can be used for fortifications. She grabs a boulder, arms straining, going lightheaded. Too long without sleep. Too long without a real meal.

"Grace, stop. Stop," Hope follows after her, grabs her arm, holds it tight. Grace drops the boulder, rears on her. Hope shrinks back. Is she afraid? Grace remembers the pressure it took to sink the omni-blade into her. It wasn't much. "Look at me. Please look at me." Grace's eyes flick over her face but can't still. When did Hope learn how to say please? "I know what you must think of me." Grace's lips curl. "But this is bigger than me. This is bigger than us."

"There is no us."

Hope flinches. She takes a breath. "We have to go. Shepard is… I'm afraid she's working with Cerberus."

"Then the two of you make quite the pair."

"I'm serious!"

Grace walks away. "Find someone else."

"They're going to Grissom!" Hope calls after her. Grissom. Why does that sound familiar? "They're going to take kids! Biotic children and turn them into—I don't know what. You're going to let that happen?"

"Let Shepard take care of it."

"She won't!" Hope hurries after her. Grace squeezes her eyes shut. She wants her gone. She wants her gone. She wants her gone. For almost a year she thought she wanted nothing more than to see her again, than to tell her she was sorry but she's still angry. All this time later and Hope still only wants something from her. She always wants to take and take and take. "Miranda sent this to me. Liara forwarded it to her!" Grace slows. Liara…? "Liara is on the _Normandy_. She's working with Miranda. Kahlee Sanders—your boyfriend's girlfriend—is there. Are you going to let her die? Are you going to let those kids die?"

"Don't act as if you give a damn about those children," Grace snaps. "You don't care about anything! Anyone! You'll do anything, say anything, to get what you want!" She walks towards her, shoves her back. Hope stumbles, nearly falls. Grace breathes hard. "Every time anything is good in my life you come back into it. I _hate_ you."

Hope's voice is flat. "Fine. Hate me. Just do the right thing. Come with us. Stop Cerberus. Help those kids. Help Kahlee Sanders. Stop this war. If you won't do it for me, do it for Anderson. Do it for Liara. I don't care. Just do it."

* * *

The sky is black. The stars look like pinpricks of light. It's cold. Grace stands in front of Anderson, head bowed. She told him they'd win this. She told him he needed her to stay alive, to keep the others alive. _Liar._ "I have to go."

The small trashcan burning outside of the tent makes his expressions severe. Concern, worry, is carved on his face. "You're leaving?" he straightens, abandoning the military maps, the upcoming strategy. She sees the chess piece on the map, the queen. Anderson made it a joke, it represented her.

Hope and Morinth stand behind her. "Sorry," Grace says. "There's something that needs taking care of." She clears her throat. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Damn," Anderson hangs his head for a moment. He removes the queen from the map. "Well. I knew we wouldn't be able to hang on to you forever. This their idea?" he looks at Hope and Morinth. Morinth seems uninterested. Hope's eyes are dark.

"There are a lot of people here depending on you. Not just the soldiers." He smiles bittersweetly. Grace says nothing. "But your mind is made up." Not really. She wants him to talk her out of it. But Kahlee Sanders… that's important. She's important to him. And Anderson is important. He deserves that. He's been fighting so hard. "Been holding on to these. Meant to give them back. Hell, at this rate—seems better to give them to you." He dips into his military jacket, pulls out dog tags, weighs them in his hand, throws them at her.

Grace catches them.

"Make sure she gets those."

Give them to the real Shepard. It hurts. The tags are scorched, warm. _J. Shepard._ She remembers hyperventilating. She remembers thinking of Liara as that last gasp of air left her lungs. She looks at Anderson and hates him. Loves him.

She clenches the dog tags in her fist. They burn. She throws them around her neck, an act of obedience, defiance. He shifts his weight, looks at her cautiously. Something else she can't begin to understand. Their weight is a noose around her neck.

She stoops. Max is there. "I'm going to leave him here," she tells Anderson. "He's good at sniffing them out. And he's more popular than I am with the soldiers."

"Shit, Morgan, that isn't hard." Anderson pets Max. Grace laughs softly. "We'll take good care of him." She nods. "Hey," he stretches a hand out. Her eyes sting. She doesn't want to leave him. She doesn't want to leave Max, the only remainder of her old, new life. She blinks the emotion from her eyes. "You watch yourself out there."

She takes his hand, claps his shoulder. "I'll be back."

"I'm counting on it."

She nods and turns. Max barks and trots after her. "Go back to Anderson, bud," she tells the dog, but he follows. The soldiers watch her go.

"Hey, where you going, Morgan?"

She ignores them.

"You ditching us?"

She walks faster.

"Where are you going!?"

She takes the extra thermal clips from her belts and hardsuit and tosses them at the soldiers. They fall to the ground, the soldiers watching her instead.

Max keeps up with her. The soldiers trail her path. She climbs into the shuttle. The men and women stare in disbelief. They talk amongst themselves. "Samara," Grace says tightly, "get us out of here."

Morinth climbs into the pilot seat. Max hops into the shuttle. Grace pushes him off several times, until the shuttle is out of reach. He whimpers. She can't breathe. He barks over and over again. She looks down at the group. They look at her in disbelief. Disappointed. Betrayed. She doesn't have any speeches, only a knot in her throat. Anderson joins the soldiers. She sees the worry on his face. Grace smiles shakily, salutes.

Hope stands next to her. This is wrong. She shouldn't be leaving. They'll die. So many of them are going to die.

"You're doing the right thing," Hope says. "In time—"

"Go to hell." Grace shuts the shuttle door, throws the N7 helmet against the wall. She doesn't want it. It's poison. The helmet clatters and comes to a still. She sits. Puts a hand to her face and closes her eyes. Anything she ever wanted. Anything she thought she could have—it's gone now.


	24. The Shroud

The med-bay never really changes. It doesn't seem right that Chakwas isn't here anymore. Miranda didn't want to give the crew an escort. They ran past their bodies on the way back to the ship. If he could shiver, he'd do something like that now.

Garrus clears his throat. Dr. Michel turns in the office chair, smiling and moving towards him. It's good to see her. And if Chakwas can't be here, he can't think of anyone better for the job. It's been years since they've seen one another but back when he was in the Wards their run-ins were common.

"Dr. Michel. Staying out of trouble, I hope."

She laughs. Hm. Is he funny? Sometimes humans are difficult to tell apart. A lot of the time he goes by their armor and clothing, their 'hair.' He's sure humans have the same difficulty with turians. The war paint helps, the big ass scar on his face helps even more. "Garrus. So, you finally make an appearance. I was beginning to think you were avoiding me."

"Perish the thought." He stands awkwardly. _Hm_. "Ah—I didn't expect to see you on the _Normandy_. You bounced around from clinic to clinic for a while." He winces as he says it. Yes, he knows her history. Fired a few times; a real bleeding heart, giving out clinic medi-gel to those in need, trying to help all the right people, pissing off all the wrong ones.

"Mh, yes. I wanted to stay at Huerta Memorial. But Commander Shepard… she is… very persuasive."

Persuasive. Is she, now? Shepard usually lets guns and biotics do the talking. When she's being gentle it's just threats. He used to admire that about her. Hell, maybe he still would if things had turned out differently. "She's got that way about her," he says shortly. He may not agree with Shepard but she's the ship captain. He won't badmouth her. "You sure this is what suits you?"

"Not at first. My brother is on the Citadel and there are a lot of people to help there. But I know how important this is. It is nice to have my own lab. It's good to focus one on one on soldiers. And we are well stocked here," she looks around. "But it's different from the civilian sector. No time off, always on call…"

"Welcome to my world."

"Ah, yes, but give a girl time to settle in." She grimaces gently. "Dr. Chakwas left big shoes to fill. I see the old _Normandy_ crew look at me—and Joker—with… sadness in their eyes. They know I do not belong." She perks. "But that is my issue. I miss her, too."

Garrus smiles faintly. They're all so obvious. Some soldiers they are. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you're here."

"I feel more at home, now that we've talked."

He chuckles. Is her face pink? What does that mean? He clears his throat. "That's me. Sparkling conversationalist. Try not to get taken hostage."

"Yes, I'll do my best. Not that you'd let anything happen," she returns to her chair. "Don't be a stranger."

* * *

The _Night Winds_ is fast, nimble and heavily armed. The frigate's crew is made up of two dozen Eclipse operatives , all of whom seem unsettlingly subservient to Morinth. When Grace asks her how she managed to commandeer one of the finest pirate ships in Eclipse's fleet, the 'justicar' offers only a coy response. _It was not difficult. I simply promised them a purpose in this war beyond their petty lives of crime_. It's a ridiculous answer, but Grace doesn't push the issue.

They waste no time. After they slip away from Earth, they jump to the Petra Nebula, where they discover Cerberus has beaten them to the punch. The _Night Winds_ keeps its distance from Grissom Academy as they survey the situation. A Cerberus cruiser blocks the way to the docking bays. A swarm of fighters patrols the area around the space station. Getting aboard will be no simple matter.

The salarian pilot, Chakto, pings the station. Grace paces behind him until a transmission comes back. _Night Winds. This is Kahlee Sanders, Director of Grissom Academy. We need immediate assistance. Cerberus is attacking the facility. They're after my students._

Grace breathes a sigh of relief. She isn't too late. Kahlee is alive. Morinth motions for her to take the comm. Hope gives her an unwanted nod of encouragement. Grace grasps the dog tags around her neck as she speaks into the comm. "Kahlee. This is Commander Shepard."

* * *

The shuttle hums loudly as they approach the space station. Hope pilots. A path has been cleared for them. The _Night Winds_ strafed the Cerberus ships and led them away on a merry goose chase, giving them an opportunity to slip by. Morinth assures them that Chakto is quite skilled and will return. He better, or they're fucked.

Grace sits beside Morinth in the back. The woman has an ethereal beauty. When Hope is near, Morinth's eyes are glass. When it's only the two of them they fluctuate between blindness and something keen and predatory. "Who are you?" Grace asks lowly.

"I'm Samara. _"_ Her voice is what Grace has mostly known. The flat affect of the Justicar. "I'm Morinth." She smiles and changes before Grace's eyes. Younger. Less austere. A lighter, scratchier, more playful voice. "Whoever you want."

Somehow, she doubts that. "Why did you save me?"

"I like you, Grace. We've had fun together. Don't worry. I'll keep your secret, if you keep mine." She winks. Her voice shifts again, to Samara's. "I appreciate your discretion in this matter."

Grace frowns. The Grissom Academy looms near. She leaves Morinth's side and goes to the cockpit to look out, a hand resting on the back of Hope's seat. The Ascension Project houses and trains human biotics. Why would Cerberus be after them? It seems useless. They must want something. _Power._ No doubt they've some twisted purpose in mind.

Hope finds the auxiliary cargo port Kahlee opened for them. She steers the shuttle in and settles it to a landing. "What next?" she asks.

Grace moves to the door. "We find Kahlee Sanders and get whatever or whoever they want out of there."

"What of Cerberus?" Morinth asks.

"They can leave in body bags."

* * *

Grace charges ahead, Morinth at her side, Hope trailing behind, M-97 in hand. Kahlee Sanders told them the way to Orion Hall. If they don't get there quickly, Cerberus will kill or abduct all the students.

 _David always said you could do anything._ Kahlee's words ring in Grace's ears. _'David' is stuck on Earth fighting an impossible war,_ she thinks. Pah, Shepard. _So leave it to her and stop cleaning up her messes._ If only it were that simple.

 _Earth has fallen,_ a man announces over the PA system. _Fighting now only dishonors your family._ Grace grits her jaw. Cerberus fucks. So far they've encountered only a few troopers here and there—not enough to justify the cruiser they saw outside. They wipe them out easily, going through steel security door after steel security door, rescuing stranded students one by one. A Cerberus soldier rounds the corner. Grace hits him with a biotic throw that snaps his back. He slides down the wall and collapses in a heap. The corner of Morinth's mouth hitches.

Another security door opens up to reveal a fucking huge mech, some scared kids and a contingent of Cerberus soldiers. A tight-bodied woman wearing a short leather jacket, gauze wrappings and a fuckton of tattoos hurls a group of soldiers back with a throw. The room hums with the biotic energy that radiates from her. "Jack," Hope says, a hint of surprise in her voice. "Wasn't expecting to find her here." So she doesn't know everything. Grace shouldn't find it reassuring.

"Shepard, keep it off us!" Jack shouts, herding her students up some stairs.

Grace was beginning to think it was a waste of time coming here but there's no way that one biotic – no matter how damned strong – and a bunch of kids could take on Cerberus and _that_ fucking thing. The Atlas is slow and clumsy, but massive and powerful. _Those big ass missiles will turn you into gravy. Screw this up and you're not saving anyone._

They take cover and pincer the mech, picking off stray soldiers as they can. Jack and her students keep most of the soldiers occupied from the balcony they retreated to. It doesn't take long. The Atlas explodes, sending its pilot skidding along the floor. He doesn't move. Grace pumps a bullet into his head just to be sure. They mop up the last couple of soldiers. It's over. She moves toward the balcony.

Jack has Grace in her sights. She leaps down, sticking a perfect landing. Grace is impressed. The woman is a biotic powerhouse. She can't say she'd mind raising hell with her.

Grace pulls the helmet from her head, just in time for Jack's fist to slam into her face. The impact of the blow resonates. Students whoop as the left side of Grace's face goes numb. _Little shits._ Her eyes flash green. Hope steps forward but checks herself. Morinth observes without response. "What did I fucking tell you about Cerberus?" Jack says.

 _I don't know_ is all Grace can think. She knows Jack's name, her face, a few details from one of the dossiers Hope showed her. Little more. "Back off."

"Kahlee told me she sent out an SOS. I never expected Cerberus' lapdog to show up," she scoffs. "Still, you just saved our collective ass. I could fucking kiss you."

"I don't think that's necessary," Hope says with a thin smile.

"Who the fuck are you?" Jack crosses her arms. "New girlfriend? Shit. They're a dime a dozen for you, Shepard." She looks at Morinth. "And you. Can't say I mind the scary justicar bitch tagging along. Let's thrash the fuckers."

"The Code compels me to act," Morinth says with a gentle bob of her head. "Cerberus will do nicely."

"Yeah, well, just save some for me." Jack turns to Grace. Grace bites her tongue as Jack sizes her up. This is different. This isn't like with Liara, Kaidan, Anderson. There's nothing. She searches her mind and there's nothing. There will never be anything because she's never met her before. "I thought you were zipping around on the _Normandy_ ," she says, with a cocked eyebrow.

"It's a quick detour and it comes from the top. You and your kiddos will need to keep your mouths shut. You didn't see me here, all right?"

Jack looks her over skeptically. "Whatever." She shakes her head. "You know, you gave that Collector base to the Illusive Man." Grace stiffens. What? Wait. Liara mentioned it. She'd forgotten. "You ever think—these Cerberus assholes—maybe they're all modded to shit because of you? Who knows what kind of technology those fucking bugs had?"

"I'm not here to debate Cerberus," she moves ahead, checking the perimeter. "And whatever beef you have with me, get over it. I'm here to get you and everyone that's left out. You want to stay here, be my guest."

"You're still a dick," Jack says.

"So blow me." She slams the helmet back onto her head. She's ready to get the fuck out of here.

* * *

Cerberus troops swarm the Atrium. So this is where they all are. Grace is surprised by the intensity of the battle. It's more difficult than the previous fights by an order of magnitude. Days ago, she was in the trenches on Earth. She thought killing Cerberus goons would be easier than fighting Reapers. She's rethinking that position. Cerberus has upped their game. Their troops are tougher, better armed, more determined, and seemingly endless. How many of these fuckers did that cruiser bring? Just how bad do they want these students?

Hope mentioned something earlier about "Phantoms." Grace isn't sure what those are. Doesn't care. Phantoms, Spectres, cannibals, husks, dragons, Reapers. A fucking rogues gallery of monsters. This war is ridiculous. She wipes sweat from her brow as she ducks behind a railing. One of those goddamn turrets almost took her shields down from across the greens. She sees an engineer setting up another turret, and two more creeping along the balcony.

Christ. Cerberus isn't fucking around.

Even Samara—Morinth—whoever, who usually glides through combat wreaking havoc with a look of barely suppressed delight on her face, has suddenly assumed a more serious, focused demeanor as she hugs to cover, leaning out to spray bullets or hurl biotic attacks. Though she does wink when she catches Grace glancing in her direction.

They're advancing, but every inch is hard-earned. Jack and the students find elevation and cover, taking potshots at the Cerberus troops when they can. Jack truly is an incredible biotic—in the same class as Morinth and herself she wagers. Hope's dossier painted 'Subject Zero' as reckless, crazy, self-interested. Grace only sees a powerful bitch who will keep her students alive at any cost.

She worries more for Hope, who isn't well-suited for intense, drawn out firefights. She may be a skilled sniper, but she's more of an operative than a soldier. Worse yet, she's clearly having trouble with that shoulder, struggling more and more as the fight goes on. Grace frowns, a trickle of guilt polluting the anger she feels toward the woman. She's responsible. She did that to her. Hope hasn't said one word about it, but Grace knows it's true. Fuck. Does this mean she's the one who has to apologize?

Hope says Shepard is working with Cerberus. And not just in the _"Thanks for resurrecting me. I guess it's only polite if I help you take down the Collectors"_ kind of way. Grace isn't sure if she can believe her. It could be just another ploy, another manipulation. She hopes it is. She hopes it's just more of Hope's bullshit. The thought of that vicious bitch working with these crazy assholes…

Shit. Who the hell could stop them?

* * *

Morinth casually shoots the combat engineer in the head. Grace picks up the datapad he was reading, skims it and tosses it to the floor in disgust. More of the same evil mastermind crap. They're kidnapping biotics, reconditioning and indoctrinating them. Fucking Cerberus is barely better than the Reapers.

There's an unmanned Atlas in the room. Hope eyes it. "Looks like fun," Grace says. "Why don't you jump in?"

"You sure?"

"Yeah." _Your arm's about to fall off_. "Just don't get carried away and step on us."

Hope smirks as she clambers up into the cockpit. "No promises." She straps herself in and fires it up.

They head into the large area adjoining the docking bays. Jack and the students are on the far side of the room, positioned on the balcony, hurling biotic strikes down at Cerberus troops. More soldiers are pouring in through side doors on both the upper and lower levels. Sons of bitches just won't give up.

Hope tromps into the room, zeroing in on enemies with the mech's guns and missile launchers. She veers toward a cluster of goons just dropping down from the upper level. They scatter as she approaches, but one of them isn't quick enough. She grabs him with a metal claw, lifts and squeezes. He pops like a grape. Hope laughs.

Grace and Morinth spread out into the room, moving between the various pillars and struts, picking off soldiers. Morinth seems to be back to her previous self, murdering Cerberus troops with thinly-veiled glee.

A memorial plaque in the middle of the room is large, solid, and makes for good cover. It bears the likeness of Jon Grissom, leader of the first group of humans to go through the Charon Relay. Grace recalls hearing of his passing earlier this year. She wonders idly if he left any children.

The battle goes on for minutes, with no sign of ending. Grace is all too familiar with the sounds. Gunfire, explosions, yelling, whimpering, crying. At one point she loses track of Morinth and scans the room for her. She spots two oily black gloves dragging a kicking engineer into the dark recesses of room they just came from. A desperate scream rises above the din of the fight, then the hail of automatic gunfire. Moments later, Morinth exits the room, eyes like shadows before shifting to pale ice.

Kahlee finally manages to override one of the Cerberus shuttles in the docking bay. Jack orders the students to start evacuating to the shuttle in pairs. Kahlee announces that the _Night Winds_ is swinging back around to pick them up. They need to get on the shuttle and rendezvous with the frigate quickly. The cruiser won't auto-fire on a Cerberus shuttle, but those fighters are still out there.

Hope extricates herself from the harness, jumps down from the Atlas cockpit and rushes to the exit with Grace and Morinth.

One of Jack's star pupils, Rodriguez, falls behind and doesn't get through the door in time. They can see her through the glass wall, pinned down by enemy fire, unable to move. Grace looks Jack in the eye and gives a quick nod. Jack shatters the wall with a biotic throw and Grace hops through. She sprints to Rodriguez, yanks her to her feet and drags her back. Hope, Morinth and Jack give them cover fire until they're safely through.

They make it to the shuttle. They escape the space station and head to the _Night Winds_. The mood is boisterous. Grace allows herself to bask in the horseplay for a moment. It reminds her of the camaraderie she shared with her regiment on Earth. Suddenly, just for a moment, she's glad she came. She saved Kahlee. She saved Jack and the kids. She thwarted Cerberus, if only for a day.

Hope stands nearby, watching her. She's tired. Pain creases her face. There's something else there, fleeting, in her expression as she looks at Grace. It's gone before she can identify it. "There's more like this," Hope says. "More Cerberus shit that Shepard is ignoring. Miranda forwards it all to me. If you don't do anything about it, nobody will."

Grace sighs. She wants to go back to Earth. She promised Anderson she would. _Goddammit_. "Let's see it."

* * *

Garrus sits in the lounge, nursing the turian brandy he picked up the last time they were on the Citadel. The _Normandy_ crew has always been shit at ordering items for the dextro diet, and with Tali gone he can pretty much kiss haute turian cuisine goodbye. The _Normandy_ is different. Some of the faces may be the same but the vast majority of the old crew is gone. Not just gone, dead.

Wreav is onboard plotting krogan domination and Primarch Victus is uneasy. Victus has spoken to Garrus often. He's trying to get a read on Shepard and the war effort but Garrus has no answers. _She's handling it._ That's all he can offer. For what it's worth, Shepard fights better than before. She remains just as reckless but if you watch her closely, you can see a certain calculation to her actions.

Garrus tries to be reassured by it. Part of him is, but Shepard's stalling. He doesn't doubt the multitude of fires that need to be put out. He can't even say he questions how she chooses to prioritize what to attend to and what to leave for later. If Cerberus is hitting a human colony here but Reaper forces are on the precipice of annihilating a small planet there—hell, he can't fault her.

Still, Victus is becoming impatient. Whatever is happening on Tuchanka, he wants Shepard to have attended to it yesterday and she hasn't. She's been in a sour mood. Specialist Traynor's puzzled delivery of good news—that the students at Grissom had been saved after all—was met with no reaction from Shepard. In fact, Shepard nearly shoved her out of the way trying to get to her next destination.

The lounge door opens and Garrus cranes his head back. Shepard. Great. Maybe Liara has a point and he just idolized her too much. If he had to deal with half of the political bullshit she does on a regular basis he isn't sure he'd be in great spirits either. Shepard moves around the counter and pulls out a bottle of whiskey. She pours a generous portion, downs it in its entirety and pours another.

Garrus holds on to his drink and thinks of the batarian bartender at Omega. Shepard made him drink a glass of his own poison. His mandibles flex thinking about it. Those were the days. It's strange. He's spent so much time being bitter and angry—he hadn't realized how much he's missed her. _But can you forgive her?_ He doesn't know.

"Garrus."

"Shepard." He has a drink and adjusts on the stool. It's too damned close to the ground for his height and he feels constantly like he's merely hovering above it. There's no room to stretch his legs. "Victus is getting antsy. When are we heading to Tuchanka?"

"When I say we're good and ready to."

So that's how she's going to play it. He would have liked that before. Bucking the politicians and the higher-ups, making up the rules as they go along. Not anymore. Maybe the war's got him scared. Still no word from his father, his sister. "The war effort needs the turians. And Palaven needs the krogan." Shepard sets the bottle of whiskey back on the bar shelf. Is she even listening to him? "We can't afford to keep taking losses like on Menae."

"We'll get there."

 _"When?"_ his voice has an edge. "Whenever we set down on Tuchanka, and for everyone's sake, I hope it's soon—I want to be there." Not only that, Victus wants him there. He still hasn't warmed to Shepard nor has she gone out of her way to make him feel welcome. She admires his style, his ruthless tactics, but hasn't seen the need to include him in strategy conferences. Now that he thinks about it, he can't think of anyone who's spent that time with her. Shepard looks at him long and hard. Her gaze dissects him. "What?"

"I didn't imagine how we parted ways after the Collector base."

But she seems uncertain when she says it, as if maybe she did imagine it. Garrus' mandibles twitch. He finishes his drink. He'd like to say it's all behind them but it isn't. "You pointed a gun at me, Shepard." She stares at him. He glares back. He remembers how his heart felt like it stopped then. He isn't sentimental but there was a whole other level of surprise there. After Tali died he hadn't thought he could hurt more. "I need to be on that ground team."

"Victus' orders?" she shakes her head. "The only orders you follow are mine, got it?" Back to this again. There was a time when they were friends, partners, now he's just another grunt. Her omni-tool goes off. She peers into it, reading whatever message is on it. Her eyes narrow, nostrils flaring. She exits without another word.

* * *

Apollo's café is mostly abandoned when Shepard pulls a stool out and takes a seat. She spent some time on the Shadow Broker ship before she and Liara spent the night together and Liara started icing her out. Shepard went through the Shadow Broker files. She wonders if any of it has been recovered. She got rid of what was damnable. There was more than that. Countless dossiers. A video of Aethyta looking at Liara's picture.

Liara mourned Benezia like a champ. It hurt her but she was professional, mission-focused. Maybe she needed that focus to not fall apart. Shepard remembers tension welling up inside her as Liara tried to assure her everything was okay, to stop worrying. Everything was different then.

Aethyta wipes the counter down for close to five minutes, her eyes darting surreptitiously to Liara, seated further away by the cloistered tables. Eventually she slaps the hand towel down. "You just going to sit there or are you going to order something?"

"Scotch." Shepard folds her fingers in front of her, looking over at Liara. She's buried in a stack of datapads. Shepard shifts uncomfortably on the stool. Aethyta grunts, grabbing a bottle. She slams a lowball glass in front of her and pours a dribble of scotch into the glass. Shepard looks at the paltry serving. "You're fucking kidding me."

"What do you need to drink so damn much for?" Aethyta asks. She grabs another glass and pours herself a healthy amount. "You know, people are whispering about you." Shepard feels a smirk twisting her lips. "You're good. Not literally, of course. But ruthless. When I was younger—I could have rocked your world."

Shepard stares back at her and then at Liara, back to Aethyta. Liara's father could have rocked her world. "Huh. That's awkward."

"You should have seen my ass then. Ah. Screw being a matriarch." She takes a gulp of the scotch. "My Little Wing was crazy about you. It wasn't just me keeping an eye on her. That office of hers was bugged. The way things ended with Nezzie… and these fucking politicians, always with a stick up their blue asses about purebloods. Ardat-Yakshi this, Saren that, can we trust her? Half the time she was making threats—I liked that. Girl has fire. But there were other times… when she was trying to get that business of hers done that her voice locked up. She couldn't say your name without choking on it. Goddamn. It was the saddest shit I ever heard." She looks at Shepard derisively. "I just don't get it."

Shepard drinks the five drops of scotch and taps the glass on the counter. Aethyta gives her another small splash, a thimble's worth and Shepard downs that too. "I love your daughter." Whatever she may doubt, _that_ is never in question.

"Really? I hear you have your fingers in all the honeypots," Aethyta glances at her sharply. "You think you're hot shit. Hell, if I'd done half of what you have, I'd probably think so too. But you, Shepard? You ran with Cerberus." She lowers her voice. "Some people are saying you're _still_ running with Cerberus." Shepard smiles faintly. Who's saying that, she wonders? "You keep that shit away from my daughter or you'll be dealing with **_me._** "

Fucking asari matriarchs. "If I were you, Aethyta, I'd ask for a refund. Someone's giving you bad information. Liara can take care of herself. And even if she couldn't, I'd never let anything happen to her. If I get so much as a whiff that you're filling her head with any of this paranoid bullshit—" She shrugs and stands, throwing a credit chit on the counter. "But thanks for the advice. I'll keep that in mind." She leaves Aethyta and goes to join Liara at the table where she sits. Aethyta glowers in their direction but Shepard ignores her. "Your father's a real piece of work."

"Really?" It's meant to be a question but she's distracted, not lowering the datapad in front of her. Shepard reaches out and pulls it down. Liara looks as vexed as she might with a precocious child. "Is she harassing you? Or is it the other way around?"

"I'm not exactly itching to throw down with an asari matriarch." She's already done that and it didn't end well. Not only Benezia. Samara battered her. It would be different now. Maybe Samara's the one who would end up smashed to pulp. Where's Morinth? She needs to be handled, like Samara was. It's only fitting.

"Maybe not but I don't see how it'd stop you." She finally sets the datapad down.

She's still wearing that dark lipstick of before. Shepard isn't sure how she feels about it. She doesn't think she likes it. She wants that other Liara. The one who revered her. The one who would do anything to be close to her. Who tripped over her words and thought she was something. Has Liara met that knockoff copy? Would she like her? Shepard bows her head faintly, biting her tongue. She should tell Liara about that thing but she can't. She'll finish her off before Liara can know her, can judge, can compare. "She's protective."

"Oh?" She shakes her head. "109 years is a little late to try to be a parental figure."

"I don't blame her. It's hard to let go of you. I can't."

Liara looks embarrassed. She meets her eyes. She searches until she's the one to break their eye contact. "Shepard, what about the Crucible? We still need scientists."

The Crucible doesn't matter. The Crucible could ruin everything. It's a fear-based project. An abomination of destruction. Nobody understands. They think they do but they don't. The Reapers are powerful. Probably unstoppable. They've changed and created civilizations. It would be better to harness their power. To control it. Why throw away so many lives? She massages her temple, trying to banish the headache. "You're changing the subject."

Liara narrows her eyes, her fingers skirting over the datapad. "You've said so yourself, Shepard. We have a war to think about. That takes precedence."

"I know what's at stake. The stakes have always been high, so cut the crap, Liara." She leans forward. "There was a time when you could look past that—past it to what's really important."

"Which is...?" She lowers her eyes. "I'm sorry. I just... I can't do this right now. Not with you." Shepard looks at her flatly. Liara's voice is professional, unfeeling. "Let's focus on what matters."

"We matter."

"No." She stands and gathers her things. "I mean—I don't know. I need to think about this. About you... about… everything. Give me time."

Time? More time? She's given her nothing but time. Not now, Liara has said. Maybe later, she's said. Liara saw nothing when they melded. She said that. Nothing. So why is she shutting her out? "We don't have any time left. I'm not an asari. I don't have centuries to think it over. I was dead. I was locked up. I've had all the time I need to think about this." Liara shakes her head and starts to leave. Shepard lashes out and takes her wrist tightly. "Don't leave me." A desperate threat. Kaidan's abandoned her, Garrus has abandoned her, Miranda has abandoned her, Anderson, Morinth. She feels crazy. She wants sleep. She wants rest. She's tired of the nightmares, she's tired of feeling paranoid. Only the Illusive Man has faith in her anymore. He's doing what's right. She's doing what's right. Why does she feel like she's losing it? "I can't do this on my own. No one knows how hard this is."

Liara's eyes soften. "Of course not. How could we?" She sits again. "It's been difficult for all of us." She sighs. "All I have is the war and the network and... so much bitterness."

Bitterness? "You have me."

Liara isn't convinced. Shepard bows her head, holding Liara's hand tightly, heart racing. There are shadows everywhere. Can't they see them? Can't she see them? Liara scoots her chair closer, a hand tentatively against her face. Shepard presses against the contact, wishing desperately for clarity. "You know…," Liara says softly, perhaps reassuringly, "there's talk of some lookalike of yours back on Earth. The hero of Earth or something. Can you believe it? Even on Earth, there's still hope." Seconds pass. Liara makes a small, muffled sound. Shepard looks at their hands, sees where her fingernails have broken Liara's skin, drawing blood.

* * *

They reach Benning. The shuttle descends cautiously against a burning orange sky. Grace scans the area best she can through the dirt-streaked window but sees nothing. Hope suggested they come here. Another lead from Liara, she said. They go. Grace feels the heat coming through the shuttle. The air is thick. She's begun to sweat.

As soon as the shuttle lands the door comes open. A heavy silence blankets the area. Grace points ahead. Hope and Morinth move, finding cover amongst the crates and scattered buildings. There's no breeze. Something is off.

"I have found something," Samara calls out. Grace goes to her, in one of the buildings. A man and woman lie collapsed against one another on the couch, their bodies riddled with bullets. The couch drips blood. "Their attackers were heavily armed."

"I guessed that," Grace says. "Let's keep looking. There must be some reason we were sent out here."

They move swiftly but cautiously, pushing through the remaining urban structures. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. Static hums on radios and televisions. They keep finding bodies. Men, women, children, no one is safe.

Grace is giving up hope when she hears a soft groan from another room. A survivor. She takes point and scans the room. A man lies face down on the ground. Grace recognizes the Cerberus armor. She moves forward when Hope grabs her arm. _Take it easy,_ her gaze says. Grace grits her jaw and yanks the soldier up, throwing him against a couch. He flops onto it, sitting stiltedly. "Tell me what happened here," she commands. He only grunts. "Did Cerberus do this?" She doesn't know why she asks. She already knows the answer.

There's more groaning. His stomach is bloody. There's a dead woman several feet away, a Cerberus Harrier in hand. Son of a bitch got a taste of his own medicine. Grace moves to him, yanks his helmet off.

His skin is sickly grey. It pulses with light. His eyes are a pale blue color. There's no white in them. Like Niket, but worse. Grace narrows her eyes on him. "Can you talk?" she asks him. He gurgles. "Fuck."

"He has been modified," Samara tells them. "Perhaps a result of the technology gathered from the Collector base."

"I've seen this before," Hope says, already moving away. "We should keep moving. There could be others."

"Yeah. Go ahead." Grace nods when Hope looks back at her. Grace and Morinth linger. Grace sets her eyes on the soldier. "I could give you medi-gel but I don't really give a shit what happens to you." She glances at Morinth. She saw her at Grissom Academy. She doesn't know what Morinth is—she only knows she's dangerous. She heard the soldier's screams when Morinth dragged him away. Whatever she does, Grace isn't sure she cares. Not when it involves Cerberus. "Do what you want with him."

She exits the room. Hope is prodding more bodies with her foot. "They're all dead. But there aren't enough bodies. Some were taken. We got here too late." Frustration thickens her voice. She shakes her head. "Shepard could have prevented this. She didn't." They hear a hail of bullets from the building they exited followed by a long bout of silence. "Samara?" Hope calls out.

"On my way," she returns.

Grace looks around. Most of the bullets were fired into fleeing civilians. There was a resistance growing here. It's gone now. "Harvested by the Reapers, kidnapped and killed by Cerberus. Benning didn't stand a chance." Hope looks at her, waiting. Sweat runs down her face. She pulls the helmet off and wipes at her face. "This isn't right. We have to stop them." She doesn't clarify but Hope makes of it what she will. Grace sees her bite back a smile. Morinth exits the building. She lacks her usual flushed glow. "Let's get back to the shuttle." Hope moves ahead. Morinth walks in tandem beside her. "So?"

"Not to my tastes," she says sardonically. "I finished him the old fashioned way."

Grace frowns gingerly.

* * *

Udina closes the privacy shutters and secures the doors. "I have C-Sec sweep this place for bugs every day. They were just in here a couple hours ago. Still, it makes me nervous as hell every time we have one of these little meetings. I'll be glad when this nasty business is over with."

Shepard waits, arms folded. "Why'd you agree to work with Cerberus?"

Udina looks surprised at the question. "Because, Shepard, Earth is under attack and the Council is paralyzed with self-interest. You've seen it. Instead of action, we get equivocation and backpedaling. Once I have control of the Citadel, I can get Earth the help it needs." He pauses. "And you? What are you getting out of this?"

She shrugs. "Cerberus helped me defeat the Collectors. Now they'll help me win this war."

Udina nods. "I don't know what you two talk about when I leave the room, and I don't want to know." He dims the lights. "Win the war, Shepard. Just make sure you're not being led down a primrose path."

Shepard looks around. The dark corners roil with the implication of shapes. "Your concern is touching. Let's get on with this." Before the not-there shapes start whispering.

He flicks a switch. A floor panel slides open, revealing a holo-pad. The Illusive Man's luminescent image springs into existence, casting shadows that move oddly along the walls. As always, the Cerberus potentate appears crisp, elegant, impeccable. As always, he's smoking a cigarette. "Shepard. Udina." He gives a slight nod to each in turn.

Phantom smoke swirls upward, drifting out of the projector's range. "You know," Shepard points, "those things come with a warning."

The Illusive Man pulls the cigarette away from his mouth and exhales smoke. "We all have our vices, Shepard. I'm sure you can understand."

"I'll give you two some privacy." Udina turns and walks away, disappearing into a side room.

Shepard waits until the door closes behind him, turns to the Illusive Man. "I ran all of Aria's little errands. Got her mercenary groups all lined up to fight the Reapers." She laughs. "That bitch really hates you. She thinks she's going to take Omega back."

He seems unconcerned. "She'll fail. We have countermeasures in place."

"Good to know." She rubs her temples. Fucking headache. "I'm heading to Tuchanka soon."

He produces a small tumbler filled with amber liquid. "We have ongoing operations there. If they come to your attention, don't interfere." He takes a drink, savors, swallows. "And stay out of the Kelphic Valley. The situation there is… explosive."

She nods. "Noted. But I need to get the krogan onboard with helping the turians. The longer we can keep the Reapers busy with Palaven, the better."

"Agreed. The Alliance needs time to finish building the Crucible. Coopting it may be critical to our plans. Nonetheless, I have misgivings about granting the krogan a cure to the genophage."

"I gathered that when I bumped into your goon squad on Sur'Kesh. Might have helped if you had told me about that little operation."

"The playing field is vast, Shepard. I have many plans in motion. You'll have to accept that I don't tell you everything."

Her face crinkles with irritation. Is this what Miranda had to contend with? "I get it. You've got a lot of irons in the fire. But I don't appreciate having my toes stepped on. Once my boots hit the ground, I had no choice but to commit to the mission. Or did you expect me to lie down for your boys?"

He strokes his chin, cigarette twixt two fingers. "Of course not. I understand your frustration. Your impromptu arrangement with the krogan was not anticipated. Surprising that the warlord could have gained such access to the STG."

Shepard scoffs. "Wreav couldn't find his own cloaca with both hands. The only reason he got that footage is because Mordin grew a conscience."

He nods. "The incident on Sur'Kesh was unfortunate. Our partnership is still new, Shepard. Some missteps are to be expected. You did what you had to do. I don't fault you for it."

She suspects that's the closest thing to an apology she'll get from him. "All right. What about Tuchanka?"

"Get the krogan to cooperate. Give them their cure if it comes to that. However, I believe a solution may present itself. A way to accomplish both goals."

Shepard snorts. "Oh? And what would that be?"

The Illusive Man smiles almost imperceptibly. "Have a little faith, Shepard."

"Fine," she says. Whatever the hell that means. "Anything else you want to discuss?"

"Yes. There is another matter." He takes a drag from his cigarette. "X8 has resurfaced."

X8. Grace Morgan. The spare that thinks it's an heir. The Illusive Man previously brought Shepard up to speed on the clones. They were meant for spare parts. Makes sense. One got away. "Little Miss Organ Donor crawled out from under her rock, did she? Liara mentioned there's a lookalike running around on Earth." She isn't sure what to pray to, she can only hope that the lookalike is just that—not the cunting copy Cerberus drew up. The one who got away.

He nods. "It would appear she's left that fight and is now interfering in matters that don't involve her. She intervened at Grissom Academy. We expended considerable resources there and came away with very little."

Shepard's heart drops. _It's her._ She'd like nothing more than to chase the little cunt down and put her out of her misery, but how would she explain _that_ mission to her crew? "What do you expect me to do about it? I have a war to fight, in case you've forgotten."

"I don't _forget_ , Shepard." He smiles grimly. "Fighting the war is secondary to our plans. Find her and put an end to her."

Shepard furrows her brow. "How'd that bitch even find out about Grissom?"

A raised eyebrow. "You should look to your own crew for the answer to that question."

 _Goddammit. Traynor? No. Liara._ "I will. And don't worry about the clone."

"You know how to find her?"

"I won't have to. She wants to be me, remember? I kicked her ass once, but she'll want to try again. It's what I would do."

The Illusive Man nods thoughtfully as Shepard turns and walks away.

* * *

Shepard storms in like a whirlwind. Liara and Traynor turn away from the console they were peering into. Shepard jabs sharply at Glyph. The spherical hologram shimmers and winks out of view. Traynor shrinks back. Liara frowns. "Shepard—"

"Get out," Shepard barks at Traynor. Traynor looks between Liara and Shepard, clutching a datapad to her chest. "Don't look at her. Look at me." Traynor does, wide-eyed. "Leave. Now." Traynor does, with a quick murmur of 'Commander' and an apology to Liara. Liara doesn't think she needed to be told twice. The poor Specialist has been on Shepard's shit list since day one.

Liara waits until the door shuts behind Traynor. Shepard is furious. Her eyes have a blue sheen. She feels the energy come off her in waves like static. "Was that necessary?" Liara asks. "Would you please explain—"

Shepard's hand wraps around Liara's arm like a vise. Her fingers dig in painfully. It will bruise. She doesn't think to pull away. Shepard's eyes are hypnotic, flaring. "I know what you're doing."

"Shepard—"

"Don't!" She squeezes tighter. "Don't you fucking lie to me, T'Soni." She comes closer. "If it's not you, it's Traynor. And if it's Traynor, you don't even want to think of what she'll look like when I'm finished with her." Liara's throat is tight. She wants to tell Shepard she's wrong. She won't implicate Traynor falsely. She wants to tell Shepard that she's scaring her but the words won't come. "Tell me."

"Let go of me."

Shepard doesn't.

Liara steels herself. "Whatever you think—I have agents, Shepard. The Shadow Broker network. I know we don't have time, I know you're focusing on what you think is right—I'm trying to help." Shepard's breath is hot over her, her eyes glistening and angry. So damned angry that Liara feels sorry about it. "I was trying to help," she says again, quickly, breathlessly. "I'm sorry." Shepard lets her go. She paces slowly, hands covering her face. Liara watches her.

"Who are you working with?" Shepard's pace has changed and now she moves, like a pendulum, her eyes cutting. "Who are these agents?"

 _Miranda._ "I don't know."

"You're lying to me!"

A shiver runs through her. Goosebumps pull at her skin. "I'm not lying." The truth is that she doesn't know. All she knows is that she's passed it on to Miranda, who in turn has passed it on to her own people. The words tumble out of her mouth. "I don't know all my agents. It's impossible."

"You don't know? You're the Shadow Broker. You say you know _everything._ Are you full of shit? _How_ the fuck do you not know?"

Liara stares back, trying to shake the cold. "I don't know everything." Unfortunately. "I'm sorry. I'd—I'd tell you if I knew, Jane." The name is a grasp at straws.

Shepard slows. Eventually she stops. Her voice is calm, even. "How am I supposed to get anything done when my own crew is turning against me?" Liara stops. Is that what she's done? No. It isn't. She's trying to help. Shepard can't really think that. "Stick to researching the Crucible, Liara. You have no idea the damage you're causing. If I get so much as an inkling that you're continuing to leak data... the Reapers will be the least of your troubles." She wipes at her face. Sighs. Exits.

Liara is still for minutes afterward. EDI pops up on the intercom. _{ Are you all right, Dr. T'Soni? }_

"Fine." It's the most she can say. Her fingers are shaking. She picks up Glyph and turns him back on. He zips around the room in lazy eights. Swallowing, she goes to the terminal and types up a message to Miranda.

 _Shepard knows about the leaks. I won't be able to contact you for a while. You're on your own._

They both are. Her arm throbs where Shepard's fingers dug. She brings a hand to her lips, feels a swell of emotion, heavy and somber coming over her. She drowns it. No. No. She can't do that again. Once, twice was enough.

* * *

 _You're on your own_. Miranda stares at the message. _Shit_. Shepard found out. Does she know about her? No. Liara kept her name out of it. She would have warned her otherwise. More concerning is the fact that Shepard apparently doesn't appreciate the help. It's as Rasa has been saying. Shepard is Cerberus now.

At one time, she would have considered the news a boon, a cause for celebration, a great victory. Now it sends a chill down her spine. The Illusive Man is different. Something has changed in him. He has forsaken the ideals he once espoused, twisting them into something monstrous. Her father is helping him. And now Shepard is helping him.

She hopes Liara is okay. Their partnership was a two-way street. She was about to send her something. She's been exploiting her intimate knowledge of Cerberus communication protocols and back-channels to intercept data packets and orders to remote operatives. Oriana helps with the decryption and data-mining. It's tedious, hit or miss work, and it can be difficult to separate disinformation from genuine intel, but she's gone over this a dozen times. She's confident that it's authentic.

She begins typing.

 _Substantial Cerberus forces moving on Tuchanka with intent to sabotage a turian operation. Location: Kelphic Valley. Exact nature of turian operation unknown, but Cerberus interference threatens turian krogan alliance. Advise making this your top priority._

— _ML_

She encrypts the message and sends it to Rasa. She and Grace were successful at Grissom Academy. It's surprising. The clone's tenacity and resourcefulness rival Shepard's.

She hopes it will be enough.

* * *

The _Night Winds_ may have a full crew but none of them have been granted any opportunity to rest. Hope walks the armored halls of the ship. _The Night Winds_ is an appropriate name. There seems to always be a perpetual penetrating chill to the air.

The Eclipse soldiers, outfitted in gold armor, ignore her. As far as mercenary groups go, they're a nasty bunch. Not CAT6 bad, but close. And yet, Samara got them all to bend to her will. _A justicar's influence goes a long way. She's butchered ships before or have you forgotten?_ She'd prefer to stay on her good side. All things considered, she's surprised the woman hasn't found a reason to snuff her out yet. Justicars have soft sides the way thresher maws do.

She finds the small cabin she's looking for and pulls the heavy iron door open. Four 'beds' stick out. More cots than beds, with tissue thick mattresses. Grace hasn't shared her cabin with anyone, though she has seen Samara sitting with her late into the night, talking, door closed. _What the hell could they have to say to one another?_ She tells herself she isn't jealous. Grace stops Shepard, stops the Reapers, everyone wins. That's all that matters.

For the time being, Grace reclines on a cot, a thin pillow folded in half with her arm used as extra padding. The CAT6 armor sits opposite in an empty bed, some dead knight's armor. Grace is reading ANN news on the omni-tool. Reading is all she ever seems to do when she isn't wiping out Reaper and Cerberus forces. Hope remembers when Grace liked fucking her. Now she looks at her as if she's no more significant than a stray particle of dust.

"What is it?" Grace asks, not lifting her head, not setting down her reading.

Brilliant opening. Hope swallows her bitterness. She imagined their reunion going differently. She thought in time Grace would see that she was only trying to do the right thing. She hasn't. Nor can she call Grace on it. "I've just received word from Miranda. Cerberus is up to something on Tuchanka. We need to go there and put a stop to it."

"Are you sure this isn't some setup? She was Cerberus."

"So was I."

"I don't trust you, either."

Hope bites her tongue. It shouldn't sting. Who bloody cares what some clone thinks? Her cheeks heat guiltily. She could apologize again. Then again, there still remains so much that Grace doesn't know. It seems she'll always be apologizing. Her shoulder throbs. She massages it unknowingly. The cold does nothing to ease the pain.

Grace sits up, looks at her, eyes flicking away. She turns on her side, facing the wall. "Tell Chakto to set course for Tuchanka." She stares at the omni-tool screen for too long, seemingly reading nothing. Hope waits before walking away.

* * *

It's a war zone. Throwing herself into it is suicide but she leaps off the shuttle. The cannon detonations and spitting bullets are deafening. She dives into cover and is soon flanked by Hope and Morinth.

A pang of worry stabs into her, visceral and unexpected. There are Cerberus soldiers everywhere and she's worried for Hope. She still hasn't apologized to her about the shoulder. They've barely spoken at all. Hope's eyes have been coolly indifferent, as if refusing to acknowledge anything may have occurred between them.

"Hold your fire!" There's a shout amongst the soldiers. Aside from the random cannon firings all goes silent. Grace only hears her own breath. Hope's face glistens with sweat. "Shepard?" One of them says in disbelief. "Aren't you supposed to be at the Shroud?"

Grace rises out of cover. The Cerberus soldiers watch her. Hope's features are strained. _What are you doing?_ her face says. Grace climbs the small stony ledge and looks at the crowd of soldiers, weapons lowered. She exhales shakily. Hope was right. She can no longer deny it. Shepard is working for Cerberus.

There's a violent twist in her stomach, revulsion at Shepard, at herself. _Set down your weapons s_ he nearly says. Instead she lifts an arm, sending a massive shockwave through the ground, splitting the earth into a cracked smile, pummeling the soldiers. "Change of plans," she says.

 _"Oh, shit! It's the other one!"_

Morinth jumps into the fray, mowing down the soldiers with the M-15 Vindicator. She gets them while they're fleeing for cover. Her face is euphoric. She laughs but Grace can't hear the sound over the shrieking weapons. Ahead of her, one of the soldiers head bursts open, reminiscent of a blood orange someone's stomped on. "Nice shot," Grace calls back but Hope doesn't hear.

They move forward. It only occurs to her later that they could have done this the easy way. _The easy way's never been your style._

* * *

The turian platoon is within sight. Spirits, Shepard can fight. As Reaper ground forces fall before them, Garrus wonders what goes through their minds. Are they capable of feeling fear? Hopelessness? Do they recognize the futility of trying to defeat her in combat? Or has even that been taken from them?

At times like this, he wonders if he's been too hard on her, expected too much. Fight isn't even the right word for what she does. She overwhelms. A blur of kinetic force that the eye can barely follow, she leaves a trail of pummeled and smoldering corpses in her wake. He distrusts her, maybe even hates her, but in this respect there can be no denying that she is as magnificent as when he first met her. Here, in the chaos and fury of battle, she is _Shepard_.

The outcome of the battle is never in question. The Marauder things used to bother him, but now he takes grim satisfaction in overloading their shields and disintegrating their heads with the Krysae. Within minutes, the rubble of the collapsed building is littered with dead Reaper troops. A stray swarmer crawls from the gooey remains of a Ravager and springs at him. He swats it to the ground and stomps it. It gives out a squeal before crunching and splattering beneath his boot.

The fight's over. They approach the haggard remains of the turian platoon.

Lt. Victus introduces himself. The Primarch's son. That's one good piece of news he can take back to the _Normandy_. Shepard questions the lieutenant with an air of disdain. The turians were sent to recover a giant bomb from Cerberus, but their ship was shot down. They've lost a lot of men. Frustration lines the faces of the survivors. Lt. Victus is dejected. He announces that they're abandoning the mission.

Shepard shrugs. "I don't give a shit what you do. I did what I came here for." She turns and looks to Garrus and James. "Let's—"

Garrus brushes past her and walks up to Victus, jamming a finger in his chest plate. "Listen to me, Lieutenant. You and your men are not going to abandon your duty just because things got tough and you're feeling sorry for yourself. Things are tough all over, or have you forgotten Palaven? We all have to make sacrifices. You're going to continue your mission and take that bomb away from Cerberus, no matter what the cost. Victory is the only acceptable outcome. Is that understood?" His mandibles twitch threateningly.

Victus snaps to attention, as do the men behind him. "Yes, sir!"

Garrus nods, then turns to Shepard. "Shepard, we could..."

"No way, Garrus. I came to this shithole planet for one reason. To cure the genophage and secure the turian-krogan alliance. I'm not going to risk that by playing Bomb Squad." She looks around. "I'm not even supposed to be here." She mutters the last.

 _Not supposed to be here? What is she talking about?_

Shepard turns on her heels and walks away. "Your boys will have to solve their own problems."

* * *

"Careful," Hope hisses. Grace ignores her, approaching the group of turians cautiously. She really only has memories of Garrus to go by but the group looks dispirited and depressed. They turn to her, mouths parting in surprise.

She takes a chance. "I need a status report," she says.

"Shepard." The turian at the helm of the group, pale-faced and young, turns to her. "You're a sight for sore eyes." He goes to the console, tapping at the holographic keys. "You said the bomb was our problem. I figured you'd abandoned us."

Bomb? There's a bomb? _Fuck._

"What's the explosion radius?" Hope asks.

The turian lead looks at her cautiously. "It's enormous. It'll blow a chunk of the planet right off. It will devastate the krogan and endanger the alliance. The implications are astronomical."

A bomb that can blow a chunk off Tuchanka. Fucking great. "Can you stop it?" Grace asks.

"Now that you're here, we might—" the whistle of a bullet cuts his words off, a turian soldier beside him falling down dead. "Cerberus is trying to set it off! Keep them off me, Commander! I'll try to disable it!"

Cerberus shuttles are gliding down, bay doors sliding open. Another onslaught. "You heard the man," Grace says. "Not one Cerberus soldier gets past us. Move out!" She jumps from the rocky ledge, rolling to an upright position, Paladin cocked. There's a wall of crumbling stone, fickle cover at best. The terrain spreads out in the dilapidated ruins of a fallen civilization. Morinth and Hope drop down beside her. "That bomb goes off we all go with it."

"I am with you, Commander," Morinth affirms.

Grace scowls and plunges into the thick of battle. Soldiers scatter. Hope lines up her shots, picking off soldiers as they drop down from the Cerberus shuttles.

Grace and Morinth work together, biotic detonations rocking the fragile landscape. No matter how many of the Cerberus soldiers they take out, more always appear to take their place. Grace blinks sweat out of her eyes. This operation is big. Cerberus must want this bad. The turian squad behind them is whittled down, one by one, until the young squad leader is the only one that remains.

"How's it coming?" Grace shouts at him.

"I need more time!"

An Atlas drops as if to punctuate the remark. _Jesus. Are they mass producing these fucking things?_ Another battle, all their attention focused on the wrecking ball of a machine, its footsteps making the land quake, spraying a barrage of bullets and rockets.

Grace ducks into an enclosed space. It follows after her. She takes a few quick shots, hearing the pings and thunks of Hope and Morinth's fire. The machine lunges forward and swings its massive arm, knocking out a pillar in the process. Grace smiles. "Nice job, asshole," she sprints, the structure collapsing around her, breaking free the moment it slams down into the mech, burying it. Grace watches it for signs of life, breathing heavily and smiling.

"That was reckless," Hope says disapprovingly as they watch the smoke and dust curl around it.

"We're alive. It's not. Keep a lookout for more." She makes her way back to the turian. He pulls back from the console, anguish on his face. "What's wrong?"

"Cerberus hacked the detonation mechanism. It's set to go off."

Grace pales. "Is there a way—" The turian is off not an instant after saying the words, clambering up the apparatus and onto the clawed platform. He moves with remarkable grace, yanking back panels and ripping out the canisters within. "What's he doing?" she asks Hope.

"Disabling it manually."

"He won't survive," Samara comments, appearing unbothered by the prospect.

"We've got incoming," Hope warns.

More Cerberus goons, creeping forward, desperate to take the turian out. They hold their ground, picking the soldiers off, buying time. Grace dares a glance to the countdown. The screen flashes red and reads zero. She looks up. The turian clings to the massive device with one hand, the final canister pulled free. "Victory at any cost!" he yells. The device collapses into the pit, taking him with it.

A violent explosion shakes the ground. For an instant, Grace thinks they failed, that this is the end. The shockwave knocks them back. Relief floods over her. She gets to her feet and walks to the edge of the pit. Fire burns below. Relief turns to anger. She didn't know the turian but now he's gone. Cerberus' fault. Shepard's fault. She dusts herself off and heads to the shuttle, knowing what she has to do.

Victory at any cost.

* * *

The krogan convoy rolls toward the Shroud. Shepard stands, gripping an overhead pipe as the tomkah pitches and lurches its way over the remnants of what used to be krogan civilization. A civilization they willfully obliterated in nuclear fire.

The turians radio in. Artimec Wing is ten minutes away from the Shroud, where a Reaper awaits them all. They're like an army of ants and mosquitos, gathering themselves to attack a pissed off rhinoceros. She thinks of Sovereign. _You exist because we allow it, and you will end because we demand it._

She ended him, but she knows they aren't going to win this war with guns and ships. The Illusive Man says they can change the Reaper paradigm altogether. That the Crucible may help them do that. Fine. She'll start recruiting scientists. Maybe then Liara will stop harping on her about it.

Mordin sits behind her, muttering over his omni-tool as he goes over his work for the millionth time. He's been brimming with nervous energy ever since they got to Tuchanka. He thinks he's about to cure the genophage. It's important to him on a personal level, a chance for redemption. Shepard can admit to feeling a pang of guilt for what she has to do, though it won't deter her. The salarian doctor is a singular genius. They wouldn't have defeated the Collectors without him. He deserves better.

It doesn't matter. Nobody gets what they deserve.

When Dalatrass Linron contacted her, it was like a miracle delivered from the blue. Salarian operatives sabotaged the Shroud years ago. Let it dispense a fake cure, she urged. _How you deal with Mordin is up to you, Commander._

It's an ingenious plan. The krogan are placated, the turians get their help, the salarians agree to pitch in some scientists for the Crucible, and the galaxy doesn't have to worry about being overrun by krogan in a couple centuries. The Illusive Man told her to _have a little faith_. To think she nearly laughed at the words.

Eve sits across from Wreav, chastising him for his repeated threats to exact revenge on the galaxy. _Our people were made for war_ , he says. _It's what they want_. Shepard thinks of Wrex. He was a hell of a lot smarter than Wreav, but he also couldn't think straight when it came to the genophage. Ashley had to put a bullet in his brain in the end.

Eve's got a good head on her shoulders. And a spine of steel. Shepard barely spoke to her on the _Normandy_. Maybe she should have. When all the males were baring their teeth and growling at each other like a pack of hungry varren back at the Hollows, it was Eve who brought them to heel and got them back on mission. The female krogan turned out to be the one with the biggest quad.

Not surprising really.

Eve says Tuchanka used to be some kind of paradise, a cultural marvel. _We had dreams… a future to look forward to_. Shepard has a hard time imagining it. They annihilated their civilization out of boredom. Life was too easy. They needed a challenge.

Wreav continues to bluster. _As long as the rest of the galaxy thinks we want revenge, we'll have power. They'll fear us, the way krogan are meant to be feared_. He chuckles, pleased with himself.

Shepard frowns. Eve looks to her. "Commander, you look troubled. Is there something you want to say?"

Shepard releases the pipe she's been holding onto. "Yeah, actually, there is something I need to get off my chest." She takes a deep breath and steps forward. In one smooth motion, she pulls her Carnifex and presses it to Wreav's face. His eyes barely have time to register surprise before she discharges the first shot. She pumps three more rounds into his brain for good measure. Krogan don't die easy.

Wreav slumps over in his seat, blood and ichor dripping onto the floor. Shepard whirls to Eve – who is just starting from her chair – and points the hand-cannon at her face. "Find someone else to lead your little renaissance." She holsters the weapon. "Better yet, do it yourself."

* * *

"It's too soon," Hope says.

Grace hops off the shuttle before it even lands. The Shroud is within sight. The skies are a sickly grey. Hope follows after her, ignoring the throbbing pain in her shoulder. Not one full day on Tuchanka and she's already sick of it. Too much fighting, too much dust and now Grace is running off, determined to find Shepard and put a stop to her. "Don't tell me what I can and can't do." She holds the Paladin tightly in her hand, walking so quickly Hope has to half-jog to keep up with her.

"You stopped the bomb. That was the most important thing. We need to regroup. We need to think about this."

"There's no time."

"Grace!" The woman slows. Hope catches up, stands in front of her. Grace tries to walk around her. Hope puts a hand up, grazing the bullet pecked chest armor. "You're important. Too important." She takes a breath. Swallows the bitterness she feels. "You're not ready." Tries to correct. "What if you're not ready?" It's not a great recovery. Hope doesn't know whether to take satisfaction from the doubt that flickers on her face, the moment of hurt. It means she means something. That she can still affect her. "I know what happened before. I know what I've said. But you're not Shepard. You're not Shepard."

Grace's eyes grow cold. She puts a hand on her shoulder and pushes past her. "If you see an N7 suit start shooting."

"Grace!" Hope follows after her, legs numb but she's out of sight too soon. She can't breathe. She can't identify the fear coursing through her. Her stomach is clenched. She's dizzy and nauseous. Afraid. She's afraid.

* * *

The bitch stopped the fucking bomb. That fucking cunt is on Tuchanka. _You need to stop her. You need to kill her._ She lets her run free and she'll screw up the war and the Reapers will win. Her hands are already bloodied. One more won't make a difference. She's doing the right thing. She's doing the right thing. _You sure about that, Skipper?_ Shut up.

Shepard yanks the Carnifex out of its holster, pointing it at Mordin and following after him. "Mordin." He stops, halfway to the elevator. The Shroud is racked with explosions. Chunks of debris fall down around them. He looks at her. She never thought of salarians as particularly expressive. Their eyes are large and black. What's there to see? His eyes widen only slightly before going flat. She smiles apologetically. "Walk away."

He takes a breath. His scorn washes over her. "Will not. Genophage cure imperative. Will not be stopped." He steps closer to her. She doesn't flinch. "Owe this to krogan. My work. My responsibility." The barrel touches his chest. He's mocking her. "You working with dalatrass for salarian aid? You working with Cerberus?" His voice rises, angrier. "You afraid of krogan? Killed Wreav. Not enough." Shepard's nostrils flare. "Coward. Coward. Coward." He turns his back to her. "Will go up. Genophage must be cured."

"Mordin!" She doesn't recognize her own voice, loud, hoarse, enraged. She's lost more than his respect. She's lost much more than he can ever know. His loss is nothing. His death is everything. "I'm giving you a chance here. Don't test me."

He turns. Considers. Eyes wider than usual. "Ah. Shepard. Yes. Understand now. Help me."

Shepard laughs. "Help? You're cracking, Mordin."

"Was not talking to you. Was talking to her."

A heavy, paralyzing chill moves over her. She turns swiftly. A brutal blow knocks her to the ground.

* * *

The elevator rises slowly, Mordin staring down at both women. Debris continues to shake loose from the Shroud. It falls like cannonballs around them, smashing into the silver control panels. Shepard hops onto her feet quickly. "About time you showed up. Morinth's not here to help you now, bitch." She takes a hard swing. Grace dodges, keeping her distance. She can't let her get too close. Shepard's nose dribbles blood. "I'm going to have fun killing—"

Grace slams her with a biotic throw, hurtling her into the elevator entrance. The glass shatters and Shepard collapses to the ground with a huff. Grace follows. Shepard gets to her feet, shakes her head. Pounces. A wave of biotic energy flows around her before Shepard slams her fist down hard on the ground.

Unbelievable. She's more powerful than before. _You're not Shepard._ Shepard grabs on to her, pummels a fist into her stomach before physically tossing her into a wall. The wall crumbles. She's not normal. She's something else. _She's Shepard._ She doesn't have Morinth. This is the woman who all but destroyed her before, turned her bones into something as fragile as twigs. She was bruised for months.

 _Get up. Get up._ She gets up. Shepard's fist crunches into her face. Grace tests her jaw. Still intact. She blocks the second swing, delivers a hard kick to Shepard's stomach. The terrain continues to erupt, the Shroud quickly disintegrating. Grace sends a forceful knee into Shepard's face. Shepard falls onto her back, the Carnifex tumbling out of her hand. She unclips the Eviscerator from her back, a blast fired, barely dodged.

Grace rips it from her, clips her on the side of the head with it. Shepard claps a hand to her head. She turns only slightly, but it's enough. Grace strikes, her fingers digging into the back of Shepard's neck, ripping the biotic amp from her. Shepard fumbles, groping wildly, eyes wide. Grace smirks. Shepard focuses hateful eyes on her, screams, charging. Her arms wrap around her and then they're falling into the black.

She doesn't know how long they fall. They land hard. Dust filters down in the light. Explosions can be seen and heard overhead. Dirt sifts down. Shepard groans, pushing to her feet. Grace starts to stand. The air has gone out of her lungs. Shepard kicks her. She takes a step back and kicks her again. Grace tastes blood. "You think you can beat me?" Shepard asks. "You're spare parts!" she kicks her again. "You're nothing!"

Grace's vision blurs, the edges going black. She's not Shepard. Anderson was wrong. Hope was right. She shouldn't have left Earth. She considers lying still. Her body thumps beneath Shepard's boot. Kick. Kick. Kick. Shepard sinks to her knees, straddles her, wraps her hands around her neck. "It's over," she says.

It's over.

She thinks of Liara. She thinks of Hope. She thinks of Anderson back on Earth. The air is going out of her lungs. Behind Shepard explosions rock the skies. She remembers the explosions, the blackness creeping around her. But there are no stars. Cerberus is going to win. Shepard is going to win. The Illusive Man is going to win. And she's going to die. Maybe everyone's going to die.

Shepard's grip lessens. She brings a hand to her forehead, eyes closed, grimacing. Her head bows, face inches away, as she exhales shakily. Grace's lungs burn. She head butts Shepard. Shepard makes a gasping sound. Grace manages to sit up. Her limbs are heavy and tired. She grabs the neckpiece of Shepard's armor and pummels her face with her fist. Once and her hand flares with pain, again until her fist is bloody. Her hands are already bloodied. One more won't make a difference. Shepard flails, knocking the Paladin from Grace's holster. Grace doesn't stop hitting her until Shepard spits out a glob of blood.

Grace crawls away from her. She doesn't know how long it takes for her to get to her feet. Her face is bleeding, her body battered. Everything's numb. Everything hurts. She doesn't feel better. She doesn't feel anything. What was the point of it? What was the point of any of it? She hears Shepard's erratic breath behind her. She can't do this anymore. She can't kill her. She can't kill another one. Another X20. "Just go," Grace manages. A plea. "Just go be someone else."

There's a scuffle. Grace turns slowly. Shepard's lunged for the gun. It's in her hand. Her face runs red. Her eyes go silver. "Fuck you."

The air goes out of Grace's throat.

* * *

The crack of a pistol illuminates the black. The Shroud spews a golden mist over Tuchanka but Hope doesn't see it. She doesn't call out her name. She's lost the ability to speak. Her body tingles. There's no piece of herself she can feel.

She doesn't know how much time passes. Minutes. Hours.

Scraping. Scratching. Grunting. A sound in the dark. "Grace…?" she breathes it like a prayer.

She waits. For redemption. For forgiveness. She wants to be wrong. _Please let me be wrong._

A black armored glove shoots out, fingers splayed, searching, and then another. The figure pulls herself out with a grunt. N7 armor. **_Shepard_**.

Her heart stops. She clambers backward, her fingers wrapping around the Carnifex left discarded on the ground. _If you see an N7 suit start shooting._ Shepard rises. Bloodied. Dark eyes. _Pull the trigger._ Her eyes water. _Do it for Grace. Do it because she asked you to. Do it because Shepard's working with the Illusive Man. Do it because you owe her this, if nothing else._ Hope gasps, a stifled sob. For all her talk, she can't. This is all that remains.

Shepard stands before her, eyes like nuclear winter. Her gaze shifts to the gold haze filling the skies before her focus returns to Hope. She snatches the Carnifex from her, twisting Hope's fingers painfully in the process. She can't cry out. Shepard holsters the weapon and then, deeming her insignificant, turns away, leaves her.

Hope's limbs are numb. No. No. **_No._** She fights to get to her feet, half crawls before she can manage it. She tries to make it to the ledge. She needs to find her.

"Rasa."

Hope turns.

Samara stands there, eyes as unfeeling as ever. Where did she come from? Where was she hiding? Why didn't she help? Hope wants to scream at her. Emotionless bitch. Samara moves closer, peers down into the abyss where Shepard was just birthed from, bloody and battered. "I am sorry," Samara says. Hope's throat is tight. All she can do is shake her head, feel her eyes burn, cover her shame with a hand. She can't let the tears fall.

A fist pummels into her stomach. Her hand drops. Her knees buckle. She takes a breath, like a drowning fish out of water. The pain is crippling. It spreads in a wave. She folds over, all remaining strength sapped out of her. Samara smiles. It's not Samara. Oh, God. It's not Samara. Morinth catches her before she falls. "There, there," she coos. Her voice is far away, light. There is red and then black and then, mercifully, nothing.


	25. Shepard

The ship is a graveyard.

The Kodiak rests, Cortez caressing it carefully with his hand. It's dirty and dinged up, riddled with bullets, but alive, against all odds. There's a screw loose and he frowns, picking up the power drill beside him. The shuttle bay door opens. Shepard strides in with hurried and yet unsteady steps. Blood is matted to her face and hair. She stinks.

The genophage cure was deployed. At least that's what he gathers from the krogan celebration on the giant rock. The Shroud has been blown sky high but Shepard doesn't look any happier for it. She heads straight for the elevator. Cortez sets the drill down and goes after her. "Hey, Commander." She doesn't look at him. She jabs at the elevator button again. "Hell of a thing you did down there."

She looks at him now, as if she doesn't recognize him. "Thanks," she says shortly.

"You all right?" Commander Shepard is an intimidating persona. The Butcher of Torfan, the Hero of the Citadel, the First Human Spectre. All of it means that she's a hotshot that has earned a lot of that attitude she brandishes with the grace of a shotgun. She's a force to be reckoned with. He'd never want to take her on. When he began retrofits on the _Normandy_ he never thought he'd be here, working with her. Hell, she was locked up in the brig. Jesus, she looks like shit. How does she keep getting up? "What the hell happened down there?"

The elevator door finally opens and she steps in, wiping at the blood running readily from her temple. "What needed to," she says. The elevator doors close. He stands there momentarily before returning to the Kodiak. She's as monosyllabic as ever, and still manages to make him feel like a complete asshole in the process. He tells himself to let it go. Maybe not all heroes are the good guys.

* * *

Garrus chuckles in disbelief. He doesn't know how the hell it happened but Lieutenant Victus was able to stop the bomb. Victory at any cost. A loss for the turians but he's made them all damned proud. He did what he had to. A shame Victus had to lose a son in the process but the genophage has been cured. Unbelievable. For a moment there, he thought Shepard might… do something to stop it. A crazy thought. One he had nonetheless. But with the cure in place, there is krogan aid coming to Palaven.

Maybe his entire race isn't doomed. Funny. He never thought of himself as much of a turian. Too independent, too hotheaded and to hell with all the politics. Still, the thought of his men and women dying on Palaven without aid was eating at him.

The lounge room is filled with various crew, drinking in celebration. The thresher maw thrashed the Reaper. The krogan have their cure, the turians have their aid. Shepard secured one of the most unlikely alliances the galaxy could have imagined. It's damned good cause for celebration. He nudges Liara, sitting beside him. She's the only sober person in the room, possibly on the _Normandy_. She's more aloof than usual, her eyes far away. "Come on, Liara. Smile. Did you ever think this day would come?"

"I'm happy," she says noncommittally. Then she stands. "I'm sorry, Garrus—I… there's work I must attend to."

She leaves him. The celebratory crowd is too much for her at the moment. The news is a boon for the war effort of course. Shepard is pragmatic. Eve informed her of what happened with Wreav on the tomkah en route to the Shroud. It mitigates much of Shepard's concerns of a war-lust krogan leading his people into a new era, but will it foster new hostility? The genophage cure has been dispensed. She should be happier.

Her arm still feels the memory of Shepard's grip. There are black half-moons where her nails dug. Dr. Michel exits the med-bay but Liara dodges her. _Stay calm. Stay collected. Stay focused._ She has to, if they're to win this war. She goes to her office, stopping short after she enters. The room is dark, save for the bouncing light of the monitors. Shepard stands there, like a shadow, looking around uncertainly, looking as if she were lost. When she turns they both freeze.

How strange. Somehow they lost sight of her. The Reaper was stopped, the genophage was deployed and Shepard hung back. Did anyone wait for her? Did they just expect she would come?

"Shepard—" she hates herself. So much for her composure. Emotion shoots through her like a stimulant. The darkness makes it look as if there is black all over her face. Makes it difficult to see her eyes. Liara goes to her. "What's happened to you?" Shepard backs away, looks past her. "Goddess, are you all right? You're bleeding." Liara's on her the next instant, her thumb grazing along the cut on her forehead, cutting through her eyebrow. She thinks, momentarily, of that Shepard on the SR-1, with that same scar. This used to be her cabin. This is where they first made love. "Jane—"

Shepard pulls her wrist away, steps back, moves around her. "I need to get to my cabin." She walks out the door and into the light, her breathing ragged. There's blood everywhere. She takes a few faltering steps, making it to the mess hall, gripping a table before falling over. Metal trays clang onto the floor around her. She's still.

"My God!" Dr. Michel shouts, rushing over, turning her onto her back, her hand lighting on her face. "Don't just stand there. Help me with her." Liara stares dumbly. Why should she help…? "Dr. T'Soni, please!"

Liara goes to her, with heavy feet.

* * *

Chloe Michel tries every search parameter she can think of but comes away with nothing. All that remains of Jane Shepard's medical records are what the Alliance has uploaded. Whatever data may have been gained during Shepard's time with Cerberus is gone. EDI explained much was lost when the _Normandy_ crashed onto the Collector Base. Necessary fortifications weren't made and hardware with precious data was lost. Dr. Chakwas, the closest expert to Shepard (Chloe assumes, anyway) was lost.

She sighs, abandoning the laptop and looking at the unconscious Shepard. Even in sleep she looks troubled. The N7 armor is caked with blood, dust and dirt. Something else, bone fragments, possibly brain tissue. Chloe isn't sure. Liara helped get her in the room but made an excuse to leave. Her face was absent of emotion. Reminiscent of the shell-shocked civilians she attended to after the Reapers hit Earth.

Chloe picks up Shepard's hand. It's curled, bloodied and swollen. She sets it down carefully and grabs a clipboard and pen. She's always been a bit old fashioned. Say what you will about cloud storage, but if the Cerberus crew had made hard copies of some of the data they'd collected, perhaps something would have survived.

 _Items:_

 _M-6 Carnifex (pistol)_

 _N7 Suit (armor)_

She turns Shepard's face delicately, fingers gliding along the back of her neck.

 _Biotic amp_ , she transcribes the model number.

Her fingers slip lower, touching the cool metal beads of the necklace. She pulls it out and looks at the tags. Ah, they're scorched. _Dog tags,_ she adds to the list.

Setting the clipboard down she pulls up a medical scanner on her omni-tool, letting the array of lasers wash over Shepard. Her vitals aren't what they should be. Several ribs are fractured and there is some swelling. Outside of that there appear to be no anomalies. She adds the notes beneath the 'items' list and goes to retrieve some medi-gel. The med-bay doors open and Garrus strides in. His gaze falls immediately on Shepard, his shoulders straightening. He takes a step back in what appears to be disbelief or dismay before his eyes narrow. "How is she?"

"I believe she will be all right," she tells him, happy to provide some good news. Still, he remains cautious, eyeing the commander suspiciously. "I don't know what happened to her, but it appears she was involved in some kind of struggle. There is blunt force trauma, here," her fingers hover over Shepard's face, before slipping lower to her ribs, "and here." What could have happened? Why would the others return to the ship and leave her? "She will need rest. A lot of rest."

"We don't have time for that," he says. "And some of us may not be here."

Chloe looks at him with marked surprise. "I know how important she is, Garrus, but she won't do anyone any good if she goes out before she's ready." She looks at him apprehensively. "I know it's not my place—but has something happened between you and Commander Shepard? You two seem…" she stops, catching movement out of the corner of her eye. Shepard is waking. She makes a muffled sound of pain, before her eyes open. She appears disoriented. "Commander, take it easy."

"What…?" She tries to sit up. Chloe pushes her arm back down when she attempts to rise. Blood is streaked to her face and neck, the thick gash along her eyebrow beginning to slow its pumping of blood. "Where's Chakwas?"

Oh, dear Lord. Chloe looks desperately at Garrus. He comes closer, cocking his head carefully. "Shepard," he says. "Looks like you took one hell of a beating. I'm thinking the good doctor is right and you should get some rest."

"No," her words are muffled.

"I'm going to get her a sedative," Chloe breathes under her breath to Garrus, or thinks she does. Shepard hears, finds the energy that eluded her and bolts to a sitting. "Commander, I must insist you lie down," she's reached the desk, taking the syringe gun in hand when Shepard gets to her feet. She looks remarkably steady as she exits the med-bay, moving swiftly towards the elevators. Chloe and Garrus follow after her but she's made it to the elevator, the doors sliding shut before they can get inside. "Is she always this stubborn?" she asks irritably.

"Fraid so."

"Can you please talk to her? She cannot be left unattended."

Garrus chuckles. "You've got a lot to learn, Dr. Michel. Shepard doesn't take orders from anyone." His mandibles flicker, his frustration evident. Chloe wonders if there is any way to press the issue. He leaves her side, dissatisfied, before she can come to a decision.

* * *

Is it pride, bitterness or childishness that she's swallowing? Liara doesn't know. She'd thrown herself into the Shadow Broker network after leaving the med-bay. The body that was recovered from the Collectors wasn't anything recognizable. It was salvage material. What people trade in. Scraps, that if pieced together, form another whole. She cried heavy, aching sobs when she looked into that pod and saw what was left of the woman she loved.

They've spent little time together since her resurrection. When they have, Shepard has fought well. She wasn't the mess that was in the med-bay. It's difficult to look at her like that. But now Garrus and Michel have come to her. Michel appealed to her with the facts, her injuries, the necessary monitoring. Garrus showed up later with a shrug and a suggestion. He seems tired lately. She's worried he'll leave. She knows what Primarch Victus has proposed to him. A difficult offer to turn down… especially if matters are… strained, between him and Shepard.

 _And they're not strained between you two?_ So they have gone to the asari. She's tired of being expected to be levelheaded and diplomatic. It's as if they find her incapable of being frustrated, and if so, they expect her to find a solution. She rubs her arm absently and takes the elevator up. There are streaks of blood on the elevator keys. Momentarily distressed, she wipes at them with her jacket sleeve, careful to not stop the elevator on every floor.

It only half-works and all she ends up with is a bloody lab coat. She pulls it away and folds it into a square as the elevator opens on Shepard's cabin floor. She glares momentarily at the steel blue wall before forcing herself out. The floor is chillier than usual, or perhaps it's that she's unaccustomed to being without her jacket. _Or maybe,_ she tells herself, _it's the thought of being around her that leaves you cold._

She considers calling out to her but foregoes it. She will not continue to be polite. She may have to work with Shepard, but it doesn't mean she has to like it. Shepard is the reason Cerberus is as strong as they are. Handing the Collector Base over to the Illusive Man, refusing to step in on the operations they're running all over the galaxy. If not for Miranda's accomplices they would have gained much more ground.

It isn't until she steps into the cabin that she realizes she's angry, that she has been for some time. For the things Shepard's done, for the men and women she's bedded, for no longer being the woman she fell in love with.

She's still, letting the heat of the anger fade to something like a snap freeze. The cabin is dark, except for the glow of the emptied fish tank. The chest and arm bracers of the N7 suit are scattered along the floor. Shepard sits on the bed hissing, a hand to her ribs, features strained. Liara throws a handful of pill packets at her. They hit her shoulders and legs, several falling to the floor. "Those are from Dr. Michel. They'll help with the pain." Shepard looks from them to her before kneeling carefully on the floor, picking them up with a grimace. Liara expects to feel guilt but she feels nothing. "You should go back to the med-bay. You're important. To this war effort if nothing else."

"Yeah, I got the memo." She fights her way back to a sitting, a collection of pill packets in hand. She clutches to them like lifelines. Her face is glazed with sweat. She's pale. Her tongue darts along her lower lip. She sets her eyes on Liara and looks away. Does she feel guilty? She should. Shepard falls onto her side with a tired sigh, a hand still clutching at her ribs.

Liara goes to her, marching forward forcefully and without compassion. "You're not going to sleep. Michel believes you may have a concussion." She takes hold of Shepard's arm and yanks her to a sitting. The pain that flares across her face makes Liara slow. "Come on, Shepard," she says more hesitantly, "we can't afford to take any more chances."

"I'm tired."

"Too bad."

"Your bedside manner sucks." She seems to fold into herself for several moments. Liara sits resentfully beside her on the bed. Her hair still gets wavier when it's wet. She even seems to have the same sweaty after battle smell. Liara's looking at the nape of her neck, remembering the way she pressed kisses to it, how she sighed, when she sees Shepard staring at her. A moment later she looks away. "Will you stay a while?"

"No," she says shortly. "You can't keep asking. It's not fair."

She looks ready to argue. Then, strangely, she doesn't. "Yeah, you're probably right." She falls onto her side again. Liara considers letting her be. Michel could be wrong. It's possible she doesn't have a concussion. _And if she does and something happens to her? Could you forgive yourself?_ She isn't sure. She's surprised to be considering the question, that she may care for the answer.

"Sit up." Liara tells her. Shepard doesn't and Liara grabs her arm, pulls her to a sitting again. Shepard weaves, nearly collapsing against her, grabbing tight hold of her arm instead. This time, Liara's the one to cry out. Shepard pulls away, apologizes, doesn't let her go. The last time they were both in this room was after they beat the Shadow Broker. Shepard gave her a long and impassioned speech that she was stupid enough to believe. Did she mean it then? Can she now? Shepard stares at the bruises on her skin, the small black scabs. Liara's cheeks flush. It's absurd. She did nothing wrong. It's as if she's ashamed of her own vulnerability. A mind can be strong but what is a body that is so easily bruised and cut?

Liara listens to the gurgling of the fish tank, that stupid soft techno noise playing from the holo-radio. Shepard takes her arm carefully, as if it were a relic, and presses a kiss to the bruises, to the black, half-moon marks. Her lips are warm and chapped. "I'm sorry," she says. Liara doesn't know if she apologizes for the kiss or the marks. She isn't sure she forgives her anyway. She's not entirely sure Shepard should apologize. Shepard releases her and Liara breathes again. "Michel's worrying over nothing. I've bounced back from worse than this." Liara can't argue the point. Shepard rips open three of the pill packets, popping what looks like nine pills into her mouth before dry-swallowing them. "I'm going to shower."

"That's the first sensible thing you've said," she gets to her feet. "Don't bother asking. I won't be joining you."

"Terrible bedside manner," Shepard affirms. She shuffles over to the shower, pulling off the dog tags from around her neck and throwing them carelessly onto the desk. Liara winces. So much for her gift.

* * *

Shepard spends the majority of her days on the bed skimming extranet news sites. Asari news, turian news, krogan news, anything available, she reads. She seems particularly interested in Cerberus' whereabouts and flags several articles, handwriting various notes that she shoves into the nightstand beside her bed. She takes pills and always appears to be troubled.

At night she doesn't sleep. She turns from side to side before eventually abandoning any notion of rest and sitting at the computer terminal, browsing through old emails that have already been flagged as read. She reads some of the previous emails she sent to Liara, the ones that never received a response, and holds on to the framed photograph of Liara that sits at the desk. She puts her head in her hands for long periods of time. She picks up the dog tags, weighs them in her hand before throwing them, like dirt on a casket.

She keeps to herself.

In the mornings she opens her dress closet with a heavy somberness. She takes out the Alliance uniform and puts it on, checking her reflection carefully, running her fingers over the material, appearing, it would seem, satisfied. She puts on her combat boots, tucking her fatigue pants into them and lacing the boots with brutal but practiced efficiency. She touches a hand to her her ribs and returns to the bed for more reading on the omni-tool.

She repeats this pattern several times over. EDI chooses 3:43 in the morning to walk into her cabin. Shepard sits up, startled. She looks around but EDI cannot be sure what for. "Shepard. I have studied your routine. You said before that I could speak with you when you are 'available'. You appear to be so now—particularly given your injuries and… difficult interactions with Liara."

Shepard grimaces. She looks at her cautiously, sitting up on the bed. "Great. You're spying on me?"

"I am the _Normandy_ AI. It is not 'spying' so much as 'seeing'." She takes a seat at the corner of the bed. Shepard's eyes move over her, settling on the Cerberus insignia on her chest and back to her face. "I have a query."

Shepard slumps against the pillows stacked behind her, resigning herself to the matter. "All right. Let's hear it."

"Do you believe a crew member should be allowed to disobey an order on moral grounds?" EDI asks. The expression on Shepard's face remains flat. Perhaps she needs further information before she can come to an informed decision. "I'll elaborate. I was designed by Cerberus. I do not take moral stances that conflict with orders of my executive officers. When Jeff removed my AI shackles, I became capable of modifying my core programming. I asked Jeff if I should change anything now that I can. He deflected my question with humor."

"That's a surprise."

"I thought his behavior was in accordance with his usual patterns." She looks at Shepard's face. Waits a beat. "Oh. I see. You also exhibit traces of 'sarcasm'. I will adjust my humor heuristics. Do you think I should make modifications?"

Shepard sits up, massages her forehead. She looks tired though her vitals read more strongly than before. She is slowly recuperating and EDI is happy for it. Perhaps with the Tuchanka victory in hand she will be in better spirits. "You do what's right for the crew on this ship and the war, you can make whatever modifications you want."

"I see." She considers. "Your directives are similar to The Illusive Man's directives. Protect the _Normandy_ crew above everything else. To the point of non-functionality. Is this correct?"

Shepard's uncertain. "Yes." A silence passes as EDI's data streams collide, providing seemingly conflicting information. "Everyone in this war has to be ready to put it all on the line. Including myself. If we're on the _Normandy_ that means we're the best of the best. If we have to die or kill to do the right thing we die or we kill. But only when we have to. If you're part of the _Normandy_ crew, you'll just have to accept that."

EDI rises. "I will give that some thought. Thank you for the confirmation that the _Normandy_ crew is as expendable as I am." Shepard frowns, a spark of green in her eyes. "That was a joke."

* * *

Garrus picks at the green paste on his mess hall tray, watching Shepard stand irresolutely near the med-bay entrance. Some of the crew look at her apprehensively. Traynor, at the next table over, has already hunched her shoulders. She holds her fork with a death grip, knuckles gone pale. Shepard looks at the group guardedly before spotting Garrus and moving towards him.

Traynor jumps to her feet before Shepard can reach him and salutes stiffly. "Good afternoon, Commander. I've flagged some correspondence for you. Erm—it's available at your terminal whenever you have time."

Shepard looks her over. "Who are you again?"

Traynor barks out a laugh. Garrus isn't sure whether Shepard's serious or not. She barely pays any attention to her old crew. Not hard to imagine that she wouldn't bother remembering a grunt's name. Still, it isn't great for morale if Shepard runs around joking like this. The morale is in the tank anyway, they don't need it to plummet to new depths. "Don't mind her, Traynor. That's Shepard's version of a joke."

"Oh, right. Of course. Very funny," Traynor laughs her strained laughter again. She keeps her arm held up tightly. Poor thing must be terrified of Shepard. From what he's heard, Shepard's chewed her out a few times over. It's one thing to have served with her, to have history with her. It's another thing to come into it new and be stuck onboard with a dictator of a commanding officer.

"At ease," Shepard steps around her and plants her tray in front of Garrus. His mandibles twitch as she takes the seat opposite him. Traynor, happily forgotten, returns to her meal, skirting glances in their direction and eating, it would seem, as quickly as possible. Shepard digs her fork into the potato salad, taking a few hurried bites. He hasn't seen her since the mission on Tuchanka but that's nothing new. "She usually that twitchy?"

"Only around you." Garrus says. She looks over at the specialist who quickly looks away. Shepard returns her attention to the tray, beginning to cut into the tough piece of chicken with her fork. It looks dried out and she picks up a knife. "Planning on taking another dive in the meal trays? I can ask everyone to leave theirs on the table. I missed it last time and I'd like a replay if it's possible."

"Very funny, Vakarian."

The casual address startles him. It's odd. She's as tense as ever. More so, he would say. But there's another piece of her that's… different… in that it's the same. It doesn't make sense and anyway, he can't let himself be drawn into it. There's a cut along her eyebrow, still red and raw, like that old scar of hers. If she'd just let Michel take care of her, it wouldn't have happened. "So. Good job on Tuchanka." She flicks her eyes up at him before spearing a few limp green beans with the fork. "I… admit that I had my doubts. Still, a damned shame about Mordin." She frowns. "Don't know how we could have survived the Collectors without him. Another thing this war's taken."

"He died curing the genophage. Somehow, I don't think he's all that upset about it."

"Maybe," he says grudgingly. "But still." She doesn't seem particularly upset about his death. But why should she? The war's taken a lot and Shepard has always been of the mind-set that any means is necessary to get the job done. She didn't spend too much time with anyone on the _Normandy_ while they worked with Cerberus. Himself, in the beginning, then Miranda. Where is Miranda? Shepard hasn't spoken about her. "I need to talk to you."

"Shoot."

She's more focused on the meal than him and he's grateful but not surprised. He was expecting her to tell him that she doesn't have time, that whatever he has can wait. That would have been easy. He could have left without regrets. "Primarch Victus wants me on Palaven, overseeing the war effort." She looks up at him. "It's going to take a lot of coordination, especially now with the krogan being transported there. I know you took care of Wreav but he'd still like someone on the ground and I'm a Reaper expert," he says facetiously. "Anyway—as soon as we dock I'll go."

"No."

Garrus blinks. "I wasn't asking for permission."

The various crew eating look at them. Shepard runs a hand through her hair. "Get out," she tells them. "Sorry—give us a minute. Take your food." Traynor doesn't need to be told twice. The others take a few remaining bites, dumping their trays and leaving. She waits until they've all filtered out. She acts as if the matter is up for negotiation. "What's this about?"

"It's like I said. Palaven needs help and the krogan are headed there. Reapers or not, we need to keep everyone on track, turians and krogans. The animosity spans centuries and even throughout the years of peace, the turians planted a bomb on Tuchanka as insurance. I don't know. I don't think it's going to be as easy as the genophage was cured and now the krogan and turians will live happily ever after. And scars or not, I'm not ready to enter into an arranged marriage with Eve. Palaven needs me. My people need me."

She looks at his face long and hard, drawing a hand over her face and taking a breath. She's pale. "Garrus… maybe things have been hard but it's… it's taken care of. Things are going to be all right."

"Yes. You've got it all under control."

"I don't," she hisses, looking around surreptitiously. She puts her hands together, leans forward on the table. "I don't know how I can do this without you. We stopped Sovereign. Now we've got Harbinger… and countless—others of those fucking machines. They're wiping everything out and we've still got a long way to go. I need you, Garrus. This war needs you. Let someone else attend to Victus and Palaven. I need someone who's gone through this before. Someone who I know has my back."

"And you think that person is me?" She's made a shitty showing of it.

"Can you at least think about it?"

He shrugs noncommittally but he isn't as certain as he was before. "No promises."

* * *

 _From: Samara_

 _Subject: Hope things are going well_

 _Hey you,_

 _That little matter we discussed has been taken care of. Until we meet again._

 _Yours in Justice,_

 _Samara_

Shepard closes her eyes. Air fills her lungs for the first time in a week. She opens her eyes and exhales slowly, deleting the message. Traynor looks over at her from her station in the CIC. "Is everything all right, Commander?"

"Everything's just fine, Specialist."

Shepard leaves her and takes the elevator up to the cabin. Her body has lost some of its rigidity. Despite the broken ribs, the air flows easily in and out of her lungs. Different from Tuchanka.

There were detonations everywhere. The dust kicking in the wind blew over her face and into her mouth. Morinth kept pace with her even after she left Hope behind. _Don't let her catch up to me. I don't want her interfering. Whatever happens, I need you to get her out of here. **And what of Commander Shepard?** If she tries to kill you, I lost. If she doesn't, I won. Keep Hope safe and get her the hell off Tuchanka. **And if I have to use force?** Do what it takes to keep her safe. If you hurt her I'll come after you. **Now you're just flirting with me. What if you're dead?**_ She chuckled. ** _I'm looking forward to our reunion._**

The elevator doors ping open and Shepard steps out. New cabin. Larger than before. Not where it used to be, and strangely austere. It's taking getting used to. Shepard looks around at the empty model stands, the empty fish tank. She'll have to do something about that. Hope is okay. Hope, who didn't shoot. Shepard buries the disappointment, able to temper it with the memory of the glistening in Hope's eyes.

 _Tell Liara I'm sorry._

Shepard takes a seat at the desk and stares at Liara's photograph. This is what she remembers her as. Young. Her face hopeful. Before she hated her. She thinks of the bruises on Liara's pale flesh, the spots where Shepard's fingernails dug in and she's glad the bitch is dead. At least for the moment.

" ** _Fuck you_** _. X8. **Grace.** Spare parts." Shepard gets to her feet unsteadily. The Paladin is locked on Grace's face. Grace is paralyzed. All she wants is to scratch air into her lungs. She's making a strange rattling sound. Or maybe it's Shepard. She doesn't know. "Did you think you could win? What's it like knowing you're not the real thing?" Grace stares at her defiantly. "You move a fucking finger and I'll blow your brains out."_

 _Shepard exhales. She wipes at her bloody nose with the back of her hand. Sniffles. Her eyes keep their silver hue. They glow in the dark. She tsks. "You've been a real pain in my ass. What were you hoping for? Take my place? I stopped Saren. I stopped the Collectors. I'm going to stop you. You've lost. You know that, don't you?"_

" _You're working with Cerberus. Why?" Her fingers curl. "I swore—you swore," Shepard smirks, "to never work with them! The suicide mission is over! You're letting them perform their twisted experiments. You're letting innocents die! For what? Your upgrades? What would Ash think? What would Tali think?"_

 _Shepard grins._ _Her mouth is red, bloody. "Who cares what they think? They're dead now."_

 _A sting needles into Grace, piercing the numbness. "After everything they've done! You do this—you keep this up—you won't be the Butcher of Torfan anymore. You'll be something worse. You'll have betrayed the galaxy to Cerberus and the Reapers!"_

 _Shepard shakes her head. Paces. "No."_

" _You were going to let Cerberus set the bomb off in Tuchanka! Who the hell knows why you were going to kill that salarian. To sabotage the genophage cure?" She remembers Hope telling her about Maelon's data. "Is that who you really are?" It's stupid. She feels as if she's arguing with herself. It's a struggle to say 'you' as opposed to 'I'. "Liara doesn't love us, doesn't trust us. That's your doing." Another explosion rocks the Shroud. Tufts of dirt sift down between them. "You killed Samara. You want to control the Reapers. Whatever you were—it's fading fast—how many men and women have we lost to Cerberus? How many alien allies? How many lives lost will be enough?"_

 _Shepard looks at her, pained, angry. "You have no idea what we're up against. You're crazy if you think we can stop them. We can't. But we can control them. You weren't there. You didn't see Sovereign. You haven't seen Harbinger. You don't have these nightmares!" she shrieks. "Do you know what it took to kill one Reaper?" She does know. "We don't stand a chance. This is the only way. I'll sacrifice everything to see it through. I have nothing left to lose. Nothing!"_

" _Liara? Garrus? Kaidan? You'll sacrifice them? For Cerberus? For the Reapers!" Her heart stampedes. "I've seen this before. I saw it with Saren. You're indoctrinated." Shepard shakes her head. "You took the upgrades, just like he did."_

" _Who are you kidding? You wouldn't even exist if it weren't for Cerberus' experiments! I did what I had to do. I needed to be stronger."_

" _Reaper tech? Collector tech? Are you even organic anymore? How much of you has been replaced?"_

" _No, no. No."_

" _You'll give it all up? Humanity? The galaxy? Liara?"_

" _Yes! Yes! All of them! All of it!" She stops, the light fading from her eyes. Her shoulders slump. "I'm so tired." She breathes. Grace steps closer. Shepard lifts the gun. "Back off." Grace stops. "Nothing makes sense anymore. It's dark in here, isn't it?" Grace nods, despite the shafts of light slipping in. "I'm not indoctrinated."_

" _Give me the gun."_

" _There are walls... there are—"_

 _Grace takes another step. "All right. It's all right."_

" _It wasn't supposed to be like this. I was only trying to help. I'm only one person." She laughs. "I'm losing it." She brings the Paladin to her temple and squeezes her eyes shut. An instant later she turns the pistol on Grace again. "Hands up." Grace lifts them. "I was nothing anymore. Without the upgrades. Everyone turned against me. I've had to do it all on my own. Sometimes I wonder if I ever really came back. Tell Garrus—" her words stop short. "Tell Liara—tell Liara I'm sorry." The Paladin is at her temple again. Grace lunges forward. Shepard squeezes the trigger. The shot is deafening._

 _Grace stops cold. Hot blood dots her face. She falls onto her knees beside her. Touches her face. Shakes her. She's still. No. No. No. She was trained for this. Dreamed of this. Fought for this. But she doesn't want it. She doesn't want to be the only one left. She doesn't want to be Shepard. She wants to be Grace._

 _She touches Shepard's face, slightly turned, a faint smile on her lips, her brains oozing out next to her._

 _Grace sits. She isn't sure for how long. She purges the meager contents of her stomach off to the side, watching the earth soak it up. When she can delay no more she kneels beside her again, closes Shepard's eyes. Her stomach plummets as her fingers find the latches to her armor. Piece by piece she removes it until Shepard is just another thing. Spare parts. She discards the CAT6 armor and slips into the N7 suit. She looks up to the world above, knowing as soon as she reaches the top, Grace will cease to exist. She paces for minutes. Fights a spiraling dizziness. She finds the wall and leans against it, fighting for breath. She doesn't want this. She doesn't want this. Swallows hard before pushing away. Looks at Shepard, prone and at rest. She searches the wall and its crevices. She begins the climb._

Shepard sits at the edge of the bed, unlacing her boots. She remembers the heat of Shepard's blood splashing over her face, grey matter hitting her suit. _That_ Shepard is gone. And now she's the only one left. She falls back on the bed and stares up at the stars. She struggles again to get air in her lungs. Her eyes burn. Everything's going according to plan. She's back on her ship. Hope is safe. She's near Liara and Garrus again.

She can't remember the last time she felt so alone.


	26. Integration

Rasa lies in bed, arms folded behind her head, watching shadows play on the ceiling. They stretch and shift, shrinking and reaching with the flow of the outside traffic. Bright neon colors splash across the walls, a spark in the darkness. It seems like years since she's spent any time in the Citadel wards. It hasn't been that long. She's lost sense of time. It came to a crashing stop the moment Shepard pulled herself out of that hole on Tuchanka.

Rasa thinks of her eyes. They were hazel but Rasa remembers them as grey. Empty. Her stomach clenches in a reminder. She can't remember the last time she ate or felt anything. _Why didn't you shoot?_ She didn't have a choice. Grace is dead. She should have stopped Grace from running off. She still isn't sure how much time passed after Morinth knocked her out cold. She awoke on the Citadel. Did she drug her? Is her memory simply failing her?

Rasa turns on her side and sighs a shaking breath. Every piece of her is cold and numb. She needs to move. She needs to plan but she has nothing in her. How pathetic. How did she let herself get so invested in what was ultimately a failure? Shepard stopped Grace twice. Some part of her hoped she would be wrong. Grace would emerge victorious and take her hand, pull her to her feet.

Rasa flexes her fingers uncertainly. They're still bound and recovering. She stares at the wrinkles in the pillow. _Get up. You have work to do._ She knows that. But what work? She poured every hope, every plan into Grace. _There is no Grace. She's dead. Move on._ Yes. Yes, of course.

Who knows what Shepard will do now? Is there any hope for her? There must be. Maybe she can talk sense into her. Maybe she can use Liara to talk sense into her. Or maybe Miranda has that control chip. Miranda told her how they did a facial reconstruction. When was that…? Around the time they were dealing with Samara's daughter. _It might have been Samara fighting for her life._ They might need the control chip. They could tranquilize Shepard, forcibly implant her. Something. _You could have shot her._

Grace didn't get a burial. It isn't fair. Rasa wanted to see her, look at her, confirm. Close her eyes, kiss her. But did she really want to see? How did Shepard leave her? Would it haunt her instead? Why can't she bloody let it go? Her eyes sting.

Her omni-tool goes off. She ignores it. It goes off every half hour, reminding her until at last she finds the energy to lift her arm. A message from Miranda. _I don't care. It doesn't matter anymore._ But it does. She closes her eyes. Eventually she wills herself to look at the message.

 _I have new intel. It looks like Udina is in bed with Cerberus. I don't have enough to go to C-Sec or the Council on my own—they'd likely have me arrested, anyway. I need you and Grace to meet me at the Citadel to investigate. Time is of the essence._

 _\- M_

It's strange. Grace is dead. She's known. She hasn't been able to forget. But seeing her name is like a knife in her gut. She has to get up. She has to. For an hour she tells herself to sit up. Eventually she's able to. Her bare feet touch the floor. The Wraith sits uselessly on the nightstand. She isn't sure she'd have the energy to pick it up if she needed to. _Get yourself together. The galaxy is at stake. Do something. Stand up for something. Anything. Make it right._

Rasa swallows hard and rubs at her eyes. She types.

 _Grace is dead. Shepard killed her. Meet you when you arrive._

 _\- Rasa_

* * *

Miranda stares at the message. _Grace is dead_. It's unfortunate, but she's unsure how to feel. Grace was created as spare parts. She was never supposed to wake up and have any sort of life. Now she's gone. It was inevitable. The galaxy simply couldn't abide two Shepards.

Miranda thinks of her sister-clones – the ones that preceded her – all of whom disappointed her father in one way or another. They departed the world before she had a chance to meet them. She was the first to be allowed an existence beyond infancy. Ultimately, she disappointed her father, too—a fact she now takes perverse pride in. If she's lucky, she'll get to see the disappointment in his eyes one last time before she ends his existence.

She glances over at Oriana, who is napping on a dingy sofa. She hasn't shared her patricidal thoughts with her only living sister-clone. Oriana knows some of what Miranda went through, what Henry has done, but she still isn't in quite the same place when it comes to their father. Some part of her still thinks he can be redeemed. It's naïve optimism, but Miranda loves her for it. She'll do anything to protect her. She needs to find a way to get her out of this life.

There's a bandage wrapped around Oriana's left arm, a bit of blood seeping through. Medi-gel is increasingly hard to find. A bullet grazed her as they fled Hyetiana, where they stayed too long. They risked exposure to the encroaching Reapers, utilizing resources abandoned by an evacuating populace. The Reapers were in the Silean Nebula, having just taken Dekuuna days before. Staying in a neighboring system was dangerous, but they needed quantum computing power to help decrypt the latest batch of data they intercepted.

It was Cerberus that found them first, and they were forced to flee with the job half done. Oriana almost paid for what they recovered with her life. They both did. And all Miranda was able to gather from the data was indications that Udina has been in communication with the Illusive Man. To what purpose, she could not discern, but it must be something big. What could the Illusive Man want from him? What would Udina be getting out of it? Udina is ambitious and conniving, but he wouldn't sell himself out just to fatten his bank account.

Rasa will help her find out what they're up to, assuming she can keep her head on straight. Miranda's not without pity for the woman's loss. At times, she spoke of Grace as if she were just a project, a tool to be used. At other times, it was clear that Grace meant much more to her than that. Shepard took away the only thing Rasa cared about. There will be emotional fallout. She'll have to be watched closely.

She wonders what it would be like to murder your own doppelganger. She imagines it would be confusing and traumatic, like some grotesque act of self-mutilation. Perhaps it was the exact opposite for Shepard. Perhaps she found it cathartic, like exorcising a personal demon. 'Grace' was just another obstacle to be annihilated without remorse. A carbon copy with no mother, no father, no real connections to this world. Nothing but the illusion of a destiny.

Rasa always said that Shepard wasn't up to the task of saving the galaxy. It was the reason for taking the clone and molding it as she did. With Grace dead, her plan B for galactic salvation is gone, as deranged and outlandish as that plan may have been. What did she think? That Grace would kill Shepard, assume her identity, take control of the _Normandy_ , and lead galactic civilization to victory? Ridiculous. It's the kind of conceit found only in science fiction stories. Even Rasa must now agree that Shepard is their best hope for defeating the Reapers, as troubling as her affiliation with Cerberus may be.

Perhaps it isn't too late to do something about the last.

Before she left the _Normandy_ , she felt like she had finally broken through with Shepard. With _Jane_. They were fresh off defeating the Collectors, and Jane had finally begun to trust her and confide in her. They had become something like friends. What if she hadn't left at that crucial time? Oh, she had to leave, no question. She won't second-guess her decision to go after Oriana. Still, what if she had been there to continue advising Jane? Could she have steered her away from whatever demented path the Illusive Man ultimately led her down?

Perhaps some of that trust she built with Shepard is still there. Perhaps there's an avenue to explore, a way for her to break the Illusive Man's hold over her. It's worth a try. But she needs to know more about Shepard's state of mind. She could contact her and try to feel her out, but a "Hey, how ya doing?" email after all this time would be transparent. She'd only tip her hand.

No, she needs a less direct approach. Who can she talk to? Who can give her the assessment she needs? Liara would be ideal, but she's out of the picture for the time being. Garrus? Hm. Possibly. Very risky. He's about as likely to tell Miranda to fuck off as he is to help her. Still, he proved not to be entirely unreasonable the last time, despite his initial hostility. It's an option, but is there anyone else she can reach out to?

 _Traynor_.

Samantha Traynor. The brilliant, lovely, intriguing Comm Specialist, who according to Liara has been in Shepard's dog house. Miranda had thought to shut down that line of communication, but perhaps it's time to reopen it. Mh. Yes. Samantha Traynor might be the best option. She feels a nervous energy as she begins to type.

 _Samantha,_

 _I hope you've been well. I'm pleased that you are safe aboard the Normandy. I apologize for the delay in response. Things have been heated here, and unfortunately they don't look to be easing up any time soon. I must also apologize for once again writing to ask for your aid. Don't worry, I'll leave your parents out of this one. If possible, I'd like you to provide me with an update on Commander Shepard. We used to work together and I've heard she's out of sorts. I know you haven't known her for very long but you're the only one I can ask. Respond only if it's safe enough to do so. I'd hate to put you in danger. If you help me out again, I'll be indebted even more so than I already am. You have me at quite a disadvantage._

 _\- Miranda_

She reads it, rereads it, and hits send. She hopes for a timely response, though it likely won't be anything she can act upon immediately. There is a more pressing matter at hand. Udina. She looks to the sofa again. Oriana has stirred awake and returns Miranda's gaze.

"What's up, Sis?" she asks through a yawn, stretching her arms. "Something the matter?"

 _Grace is dead_. The news will sadden her. She liked Grace. She'll tell her later, on the shuttle. For now, she offers a soft smile. "It can wait. Ever been to the Citadel?"

* * *

X3 wakes moments before the knock comes at the door. Quickly, she gets out of bed and begins to dress. She knows who it is. She knows why they've come.

She looks across the small dorm room, to the cot furthest from the door. Annalise stirs groggily at the knocking, pulling back her covers. It's two thirty in the morning. This is how they do it. This is how they treat family.

X3 continues to dress as another knock comes at the door. " **Open up, or we're coming in!** "

Annalise sits up, suddenly awake, alarm in her eyes. "Is it an inspection?" X3 slips the last piece of armor on, looks at her, gives a slight shake of her head. Fear floods Annalise's features. "Oh shit! They're gonna take us? Three, I don't want…"

The door kicks in. Splinters of wood bounce off X3's face as she faces the intruders. Two men with guns, and more men in the hallway behind them. They see her there, waiting, fully dressed and armed. They hesitate, if only for a moment. One of them steps into the room. His eyes are silver, his skin oddly translucent. "X3 and Annalise Reinhardt. You will come with us."

"Where?" Annalise asks, gathering up her clothes.

He glances at her briefly, uninterested in her nudity, then back at X3. "To the Integration facility."

"We have already been integrated," X3 replies. "We are family."

"You're due for upgrades. You will accompany us now."

X3 doesn't move. She saw what happened to Combat Engineer Meer when he came back with his new upgrades last week. He was stronger, yes, but gone were the jokes and the shameless flirtations that Annalise would later have to explain to her. Gone was his personality, replaced by joyless obedience. X3 never found him charming, but he hadn't been altogether disagreeable. Annalise liked him. She doesn't like being around him anymore. "No," X3 says coldly, her hand going to the hilt of her sword.

"Attendance is mandatory. You will comply." He steps forward and reaches for her arm. Her sword comes out in a flash and his hand falls to the floor. He stumbles back, silver eyes wide, too-thick, too-dark blood gushing from his stump.

The other man in the doorway shoots. She has already anticipated his movement and stepped to the side. The bullet passes through empty air and makes a hole in the wall. She raises her palm cannon and fires. The man's face disappears and he slumps to the ground.

The men in the hallway jostle, pulling weapons, yelling, unsure who should go in next. Behind her, Annalise babbles. "Oh fuck, oh shit, oh Jesus." X3 positions herself between the door and Annalise. She'll kill them all if she has to.

" **Hold!** " someone yells. She knows that voice. Kai Leng. He comes forward, sword drawn, the others parting before him. He steps over the dead man and into the room. He looks to the whimpering man holding a bleeding stump where a hand used to be, futilely trying to stem the flow of blood. Leng runs a sword through his neck. He gurgles and topples over.

The small room is a horror show, blood spattered everywhere, the two growing pools merging into one around Leng's feet. X3 stares at him. She's seen little of him since that day on Omega. He went chasing after Paul Grayson and disappeared for several months. His legs are covered with implants now. She wonders what happened to him. A pity that whoever managed to damage him didn't finish the job.

Leng turns to the others. "Leave," he says. They look back at him confusedly. " **Now!** " They back away and disappear down the hall. He turns back to her. "What's the problem, X3?"

She shrugs. It's an expression, a combination of bodily movements that she deciphered, practiced and incorporated. "A family disagreement," she answers.

The corners of Leng's lips tug upward. "I gave you a choice, X3. This wasn't our arrangement."

It's mean to shake her, to shame her. She doesn't waiver. "I know."

"I see." He paces, his feet making small, wet noises in the blood. "You don't want the upgrades, is that it?"

"That's it," she agrees.

"They'll make you better. Stronger."

She nods to each of the dead men in turn. "Were they better, stronger?"

He barks a laugh at that. "Fair point. Still, you'd be surprised." He stops, tilts his head, looks up, as if pondering. "Or maybe you wouldn't even notice a difference. You're barely human as it is." He's trying to goad her. She remains still, says nothing. He resumes pacing. "I could make you take the upgrades. Or maybe I'll just kill you, and do whatever I want with the blonde." Annalise has pulled all of her clothes on. She remains silent, standing behind X3.

X3 raises her sword. "You won't."

He looks at the sword disdainfully, and barks another mirthless laugh. "You don't actually think you can beat me, do you?"

 _Yes._

 _Maybe_.

She weighs the answers. Leng is prideful. He would take either response as a challenge. She's never bested him, but she has improved much since they last sparred. No. There are too many soldiers. They would never escape the facility. They'd die here this night. "No," she replies, sword still raised.

"But you'd try anyway," he states. "Rather than accept the upgrades."

"Yes."

He considers for a long moment, a slight smirk on his face. "All right, X3. I've seen the reports. Your numbers have been acceptable." Acceptable? She and Annalise have the best numbers of any team in the facility, by far. Leng sheathes his sword. "I'll postpone the upgrades for now. So long as you remember who your family is, we'll be fine. We'll revisit this after the Citadel mission." He turns and leaves without a second glance.

They watch until his trail of bloody footprints fades into the darkness. Annalise comes to her and throws her arms around her. X3 is unpracticed with reacting to this kind of physical contact. Awkwardly, she returns the embrace, standing stiffly, stroking Annalise's back with one hand. Is this what she's supposed to do? "I don't like it here, Three," the woman says, burying her head in X3's shoulder. "I joined Cerberus because of what the batarians did to my family. I thought Cerberus stood for humanity. Now the batarians have been wiped out by the Reapers, and we're fighting the Alliance. This… This isn't right."

X3 moves her hand up, stroking Annalise's hair. "I know." She'll find a way out. She looks at the carnage in the room. This isn't how family behaves.

* * *

"Ah, Garrus, a moment of your time?"

Garrus cranes his head as best as he can. Dr. Michel is peering out of the med-bay, a hand stretched out. He thinks of the shitty old human vids Tali used to make him watch. Women with their hands stretched past doors, windows, a handkerchief in hand, seeking someone to curry favor. He looks down at the same, tired green paste on his meal tray and dumps it. His appetite isn't what it should be and the _Normandy_ meals aren't doing him any favors.

He puts the tray away and goes to the med-bay, wondering why he feels uneasy. If not uneasy, then nervous. The med-bay is empty except for the two of them. Dr. Michel doesn't get much company. Garrus has found himself stopping by more and more. He can't think of anyone who gets half as excited to see him. It used to be Shepard but despite their last talk, despite that he remains on the ship, she appears more reserved, more reclusive. Back to business as usual. He isn't sure why he hasn't left. He still might. "What's going on?" he asks. "Is Shepard being difficult?"

Dr. Michel arches her eyebrows, before smiling quizzically and shaking her head. "No, she's been well-behaved since she returned to the clinic last time." Hmph. Not because of him. If nothing else, he can always send Liara to twist her arm when anything needs doing. She's just the right wrench to apply pressure to the lug nut. Michel turns to her desk and lifts a box.

The wrapping is a deep, shiny blue with gold ribbon. Garrus blinks. "Uh. What is that?"

"It's for you." She shakes it at him. "Well, go on."

He laughs, short and dry and takes the box tentatively. The small, slippery ribbon is a bitch to get his claws around, but he manages to pull it free. She takes it from him and sets it aside while he gets to work on the rest of the package, his talons leaving white trails on the paper. When he's finished unwrapping he stares. Dextro chocolates. He looks at them for a full minute before looking at her. "Uh. Hrmph." He clears his throat. His stomach feels like it's thrashing. Interesting. "Well, Dr. Michel, if you're trying to work your way into my heart through my stomach, I think it might be working."

This time she's the one to laugh, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, touching his arm gently. He looks at her fingers, pale and human and casual, against him. Is she flirting? Would she flirt with him? Would he like it? She's a human but… maybe he shouldn't be close-minded. Tali was a quarian. The reminder makes his stomach knot in a decidedly different way than a moment ago. Who's he kidding?

"Try one," she encourages.

He smiles, pulling the lid open and popping a chocolate into his mouth. Ah, sweet flavor. After the garbage he's been eating for months, this is pure ecstasy. Like hitting a target dead on. He makes a small moan of delight. "If you've got any favors to ask for, now's the time. I'm pretty sure I'll buckle on just about anything." He eyes the rest of the chocolates. He'll have to ration them. They're a delicacy and can be pricy. "Dextro chocolate's hard to come by. How'd you get a hold of them?"

"Let's just say I know how to get what I want," she gives a small shrug. She's flirting, right? Gotta be. _Iiiiinteeerrreeesssstiiiing._ "I'll keep a list of favors handy."

Garrus chuckles. "I'd share but I doubt they'd do much for you. They're damned good, so I'm almost glad I can't." He covers the box. "This was… thoughtful." He nods at her. He can't remember the last time anyone went out of their way on a gesture like this. It reminds him that he's been lonely. "Thank you. Sometimes… it's the little things."

"I thought you could use something nice after everything you've done for me. I've heard rumors… you're thinking of leaving?"

Ah. So that's going around, is it? Damn. "Maybe you've changed my mind, Dr. Michel." He waves the box of chocolates. "This is a damned compelling argument."

"Ah, so it's the chocolate that's done it, yes?" She smiles, turning back to her desk, taking a seat. "It will have to do."

* * *

A message has come in from Miranda. Dear God. After all this time, Samantha was sure the woman was dead. _Or perhaps she got everything she needed from you and saw no need to contact you again?_ That's likely it. Too bad. The woman is easy on the eyes, very, very easy and after you got past that bitchy exterior she seemed an all right sort. Via email, anyway. Who knows what it would be like to interact with her again? _The chances of you finding out are about nil._ What could she want?

The cursor hovers over the message. Samantha's curious but Shepard steps out of the elevator. Samantha immediately straightens. The Miranda email must be forgotten. It likely falls into 'personal' territory and she doesn't want to do anything else to get on Shepard's bad side. "Traynor," she barks, "I need you in the War Room, now."

"Oh." What? _Why?_ What'd she do now? She hasn't gone to her with Cerberus leads and she has, unless she's blocked out any traumatic memory, stayed out of her way as best as possible. "Erm, yes, Ma'am." Shepard waits, inclining her head towards the War Room before following after her. A cold chill spreads over her. Oh, _God. What will I be chewed out for this time?_ It's just a pity that such a beautiful woman should be such a merciless bitch. She moves past Westmoreland and Campbell, trying to contain any grimace.

When they arrive at the War Room, Samantha notices the crew has been cleared out. The non-essentials, anyway. Liara and Garrus are there, seemingly as resentfully as Samantha herself. Shepard moves around the room cautiously; she seems to always be drinking in her surroundings, eyes constantly vigilant.

"Was this so important that it couldn't wait?" Liara asks. Shepard sets her hands down on the war data console and looks across the small island to her. Samantha manages to wince inwardly and cheer Liara on at once. "The scientists won't get themselves to the Crucible. Someone has to make arrangements."

"Slow down, Liara," Garrus has one hand on the console and though he speaks to Liara, he looks at Shepard impatiently, as eager to bolt as Samantha is. "If she's called us here it's important. How high should we jump, Shepard? Just don't ask me to roll. It's hard for a turian." His voice drips with sarcasm.

Samantha is in awe of his skill, envious and somewhat startled that she's here to see this happen. In a room full of legends and here she is, watching this incredibly awkward exchange. "Should I go…?" she asks tentatively.

"No." Shepard doesn't look at her. That cut on her eyebrow is mean but healing. It'll leave a scar straight through, it looks like. Does she just want to look scarier than she already is? Shepard sets her gaze on Garrus and Liara. "Are you two done pouting yet or have you forgotten that I'm the captain of this ship?" Garrus' mandibles stretch before tightening around his face. Liara's eyes get cold like Samantha's never seen. She holds back a shiver.

Garrus' smile is scary. "Fine, Captain. Enlighten us as to why we're here."

He and Shepard stare one another down. A tight smile pulls at Shepard's lips though her hands are pale on the console. "I've been keeping track of Cerberus' movements and operations. It is absolutely essential that we put a stop to them wherever they are, wherever they go. This is a top priority. Whatever they're up to, it isn't good and it could compromise the war effort." Liara exchanges a look with Samantha and scoffs softly. Shepard looks at her. "Do we have a problem, T'Soni?"

Liara doesn't back down. She sets her hands on the console and meets Shepard's gaze dead on. "No problem, Commander. Except I recall multiple instances of you reaming both myself and Specialist Traynor out when we tried to come to you with Cerberus intelligence." Samantha shrinks back into herself. _Why's she dragging me into it? Just when Shepard had forgotten me._ "We tried to impress upon you how important it was and you downplayed all of it. And now it's a top priority?"

Shepard massages her temple. Garrus looks to nearly be smiling while Liara continues to look hard at Shepard. "Yes. Now it's a top priority. Look—a lot has happened and this war is pulling me in every direction. Maybe I fucked the Cerberus piece up, who knows," she says dismissively, "but these are now my orders, understand? Traynor. I've blown you off before, sorry," she says awkwardly, "but I need you coming to me with everything you find from now on, got it?"

That's no change at all. _Maybe the other Shepard was an evil twin._ "Yes, Ma'am."

"I've found a few things," Shepard hands her a stack of handwritten notes. "I don't know what's actually there, but I've got my suspicions. Trace any signals and communications that look to be off. Same to you, Liara. You hear anything… from anywhere," she appears uncertain now, " _I_ want to know about it. Don't pass it off to anybody."

"If that's what you'd like," Liara shrugs indifferently.

"That's great," Garrus says, "but why am I here? Need something calibrated?"

"Your attitude," Shepard retorts. "You've been with me since the beginning and this is a strategy meeting. Why shouldn't you be here?" Garrus straightens, looks at her curiously. "Now, if there's nothing more—"

"Actually," Liara begins. Once again she glances at Samantha. Samantha gives a small nod. She's been digging around again. Liara told her to go to her with anything she might find. Samantha had, hoping to find some ulterior method to get people the help they needed without being thrown out an airlock by Shepard in the process. Their collaboration has worked well enough, it would seem, given the results. "Samantha has been investigating odd signals. Upon further investigation, it seems there is Cerberus activity on Eden Prime. It appears they have uncovered a Prothean artifact."

"And you just _have_ to see it," Shepard smirks. Samantha can't read her tone. Does Liara have a thing for Prothean artifacts? "Eden Prime has been shit on often enough without Cerberus interfering. Set course for Eden Prime. If Cerberus is there, we take them out."

"You're sure?" Liara asks skeptically.

"They're all indoctrinated," Shepard says moving around the group, exiting towards CIC. "There's no one there worth saving."

* * *

The shuttle bumps in the air currents, shaking them all. Shepard hangs on to a handlebar. Liara stands not too far from her. Both do a pretty good job of not looking at one another or looking only when the other is distracted or lost in thought.

"Hey, Lola," James calls out. Liara turns to him first. "Lola!" Shepard looks at him, eyebrow cocked quizzically. Shit. She's been out of it. When they returned from Tuchanka she walked past him for a week before he pinned her down for answers on what he'd done wrong. She'd made some excuse and left him as soon as she could. So much for saving her ass from the Reapers back on Earth. Ah, that's gratitude for you. Maybe he's only some grunt to her. How can he compare to the people who've been with her since the beginning? "Excited to be going back to Eden Prime?"

She laughs caustically. "What's there to be excited about? A lot of good people died on that rock. They've had a bad run. Saren, the Geth and now Cerberus."

Huh. Here he was expecting some hoo-ahs, instead he gets words blanketed in regret. Guess there are things that hold even Commander Shepard back. He thinks of the Collectors back on Fehl Prime. Grits his jaw, forces a smile. "At least you were there to stop them before."

"And we'll stop them again," Liara says with a nod to Shepard.

Shepard clings tightly to the handlebar, her expression sober before she turns a smile to Liara. "You just don't want anything near that Prothean artifact."

Liara shifts, her cheeks darkening. Is she embarrassed? Damn. It looks good on her. It's a definite change from her typical icy veneer.

"Shepard, please."

"Bet you didn't know Protheans were her first love," Shepard calls over to James, a casual smile touching her lips. Liara glares sharply at her but Shepard keeps her head ducked.

"They're less disappointing," Liara retorts. Shepard's smile gets tight but she says nothing, does nothing, except glare at the shuttle door. James whistles. Huh. This is awkward.

* * *

Huh. A real live Prothean. Shepard touches the pod it's in. Liara practically dances with excitement. So this is what it takes to get her to smile again. "So, a Prothean artifact and possible new bondmate. I'd say your life is complete."

"I would have preferred a dinosaur," James complains. He hammers a hand hard on the pod. "Yo, man, get up. Cerberus is going to be on our ass any minute."

Liara puts a hand to her head, as if warding a headache. Shepard smiles and gets a deeper scowl in return. "Please," Liara says tightly to James, "we must be careful not to damage the pod. Do you know how important this is?" Shepard raises an eyebrow, considers _'I'm sure you'll tell us'_ but doesn't want to give Liara more reason to be angry. "This is the last Prothean. Think of what he could tell us about the Reapers in his cycle." And there's the explanation.

"Bueno, I'm not expecting any great tips," James says, "He's the last Prothean for a reason, am I right?" he slaps Shepard hard in the stomach.

Shepard looks from his hand, to James, to Liara. "Right," she mutters. Big guy. Seems nice enough. Not the brightest on the block. She hopes he's good in a fight. Garrus wasn't up for coming out and the last thing she wants is a distracted turian at her back.

"We have to find the command signal that ends the stasis mode. We'll likely find our answers in some of the nearby research labs," Liara is moving before either James or Shepard can say anything. "Just think. He could be a scientist or a diplomat…"

"While we're here we should _try_ to save some of the colonists," Shepard points out wryly.

"Of course," Liara balks and looks at the two with some embarrassment. "All right. Let's do everything we can… for everyone." They walk past various bunkers, all in some state of disarray, some filled with bullet-riddled bodies. "Eden Prime. It seems to constantly be under attack. Always having to start over." She glances at Shepard, "I suppose you know some of what that's like. You grew up on ships."

Yes. She did. In this life. In the last. Still, the question makes her uncomfortable. She's lying. She's not lying. "You lose a ship, you get another one," or steal another one, or kill the pilots and take another one. "Rinse and repeat."

"But it must be difficult," Liara insists. "It isn't the same, is it?"

She thinks of how she watched the _Normandy_ splinter into pieces before exploding. "No, it's not. You lose some things. Some things you never get back."

"Yes," she agrees sadly. Shepard looks at her.

"Hey, not to interrupt your tender chat but we got Cerberus incoming!" James shouts, darting ahead for cover. Liara swiftly ducks behind a stone planter while Shepard slips around a stack of crates. "Man, you weren't kidding around Liara. I see five shuttles!"

"Just take it easy and breathe, James," Shepard yanks the Carnifex from her side. She hates this stupid pistol. She wants her Paladin back. The M-22 Eviscerator sits uselessly on her back, the handle still stained red with the blood spilt on Tuchanka. "Remember, Cerberus doesn't get to walk away. They started this but we'll be the ones to finish it. Understood?"

James laughs. "Hoo-ah!"

He fixes the M-96 Mattock on the stream of soldiers jumping down from the shuttle while Shepard traps the group with a singularity field. Liara looks cautiously at her. Shepard winks. "Come on, T'Soni, you don't get off scot-free because you have a pretty face. Let's mop some of these bastards up!" Shepard hurls a biotic throw at the spinning soldiers, setting off a biotic detonation that has her ears ringing for a few moments. She pushes through it, forging ahead before tearing the ground ahead with a shockwave. More soldiers scatter. James pops them off easily.

Shepard dives into cover besides Liara. "You've picked up a few tricks," Liara says, holding tightly to the M-4 Shuriken SMG. "Can't say I ever saw those in your arsenal before."

 _Because Jane Shepard fought like a lunatic._ She freezes before laughing. "Jack taught me a few moves last time I saw her."

"Did she? I wasn't aware it was biotic tricks she was sharing," her voice chills. Shepard winces. Jesus fuck, did Shepard sleep with her, too? "I haven't seen you pull that shotgun of yours out in some time. Learning to be prudent?"

"Are you double dog daring me?" Shepard asks, the sweat running down her face leaves her cold. She holsters the Carnifex, takes a breath and pulls the Eviscerator from her back. "Look, I know you're angry but if you can take your eyes off me for a minute and help out, that'd be great." She jumps out of cover, takes a breath and surges forward. This always feels unnatural and reckless. She jumps, slamming down a biotic shockwave that makes the Cerberus soldiers stumble. She's unused to fighting like a vanguard, to channeling the energy that way. It makes her unsteady. She cocks the shotgun and blows one of the soldier's heads off before blasting another man nearly in half.

She turns to see an engineer spinning and screaming in the air. Liara walks closer, her hips rocking gently from side to side, before she puts a bullet in his head. He spins, bleeding before he falls. "Have I contributed enough?" she asks, looking down at the turret that's only halfway propped. She knocks it over onto its back with her foot. "You have a…" her fingers come up, pinching Shepard's nose and wiping the blood away. Her voice lowers. "Are you all right?"

Shepard looks at the blood, bright against Liara's fingers. She's lightheaded. "Fine," she says shortly. "Let's get moving."

* * *

 _I was a soldier, not a scientist, skilled in one art: killing._

Liara takes the elevator to Shepard's cabin. So much for all her Prothean romanticism. She's devoted half of her life to their study and for what? In fifteen minutes all of her beliefs have been dashed. Some Prothean expert she is. When this war is over, if they all survive, she isn't sure she'll have a career in academia anymore. Javik is curt, blunt, and pessimistic. The Protheans ran a galactic empire, gained through bloodshed, built on subjugation… All of it is so… dispiriting.

To think that she thought he could help them build the Crucible. He doesn't know what the Catalyst is, his own race was wiped out and they never even finished the Crucible. What could Cerberus have wanted from him? All she has are questions. She's grateful to Shepard. She can't remember the last time she felt that way. Would Javik have answered her questions if Shepard hadn't intervened?

But still, something happened when Javik took tight hold of Shepard, something that seemed to puzzle them both. Shepard went pale and sweaty. Javik simply seemed unsettled. They got through their questions but Shepard left as quickly as she could.

She shouldn't worry. Especially with how obnoxious Shepard acted earlier in the day… but even so… she's concerned. Shepard's been better lately, hasn't she? She's been slightly more on track and that's… well, that's all she can hope for, she supposes.

Once more she considers knocking but once again she simply steps into the room. Shepard is huddled over her desk. Liara narrows her eyes carefully but soon sees that she's working on a ship model. The box is off to the side, some of the pieces still wrapped in small plastic bags. Shepard turns cautiously to her, a small bottle of glue in hand. Liara looks at the scattered pieces, the empty model shelf, the photograph of herself that Shepard still keeps framed and on the desk. "Hey," Shepard says lightly though her smile is strained. "I'm surprised you've come up for air with that Prothean around."

"His name is Javik." But Shepard knows that. Liara thinks she's only looking to argue. If only Shepard didn't make it so easy. "I was thinking of his sensory ability." Shepard sets the glue down and rests her hand on her knees, her fingers twitching. "It must be… very useful."

"Yeah, who needs grayboxes when you have something like that?" she stands, paces. Grayboxes? They never got Kasumi's. She died before it happened. Shepard's barefoot, her boots off to the side. Liara watches her. Shepard notices and stops. "Uh—he say anything weird? Weirder?"

"Like what?" Why is she fidgeting? Shepard shrugs. "It reminds me a little of the melding process." Shepard laughs, her eyes averted. "You don't think so?"

"I'm not in any rush to do that again. Uh—with him, I mean," she brings a hand nervously to her hair. "Not that I'm in a rush to meld with you—or not meld. I'm not thinking about either," she adds quickly.

Liara crosses her arms. This again. Is she going to push? Still… she's not used to seeing Shepard be so… awkward. It's almost endearing. If only she hadn't been difficult and wrong for so long. "Thank you. That was… enlightening." Shepard smiles palely. Liara looks around the room. "I'm glad you're working on some of those models. Your room could stand some decoration. You know," she takes a step closer, lowering her voice though no one else is near, "you don't have to keep that picture there. After everything…" she bites her tongue. "It just isn't necessary."

"You know, today's the first time in years I've seen that dorky archaeologist I fell in love with." They wince. Shepard turns the photograph so it doesn't face them but she doesn't set it down, she doesn't return it. "Um… so… I've been going through your papers again."

"You have not," Liara says huffily. She certainly hopes Shepard hasn't. After speaking with Javik she's humiliated. Did she get anything right about them in the papers? Outside of the fact that they were wiped out by the Reapers?

"I _have._ You've written over a dozen articles, you know, many published in journals."

Shepard's impersonation is not entirely inaccurate. Liara seethes, and more foolishly, feels her eyes burning. From what? Anger? Embarrassment? That Shepard could tease her right now when she's feeling so sensitive about it? How thoughtless of her. Why does she care what Shepard thinks? But wasn't that how they fell in love? Shepard got the beacon and the Cipher and Liara tried to make sense of it with her. Those were their original melds, before they became more intimate. "You must really be enjoying this."

Shepard takes a step back uncertainly. "It feels easy enough," she admits, though from her expression, Liara can't read how Shepard feels about that easiness. "Look, forget the papers. If it wasn't for your studies we wouldn't have…" she thinks, "the Crucible and we wouldn't have… well… we wouldn't have had everything else." She buries her hands in her pockets. "But… I'm sure you didn't come here for that. What's up?"

"I was worried," she accuses, "after Javik grabbed hold of you, I thought…" what did she think? She isn't sure. "You didn't look well."

"Mh. I know how you hate sharing so I think I'll leave Javik the Prothean for you." She sits, fingers buried in her hair. "I don't like that… thing he does. I don't want him around me—reading everything."

Liara understands the feeling. No matter how useful the sensory ability is, there is something invasive about it. Another part of her wonders why Shepard would avoid it. "You've never been one to hide anything." Shepard says nothing, her jaw grit tightly. "Are you…? Hiding something?" Shepard stares straight at the computer monitor. Liara tentatively touches a hand to her shoulder. She half-expects Shepard to lash out. Or take her in her arms. She does neither. Her body is tense but gradually it relaxes. Shepard turns to look at her. She looks sad. "I know I'm the Shadow Broker… but I don't know everything."

"I just don't want him around," she says casually. "He doesn't exactly ask, does he?"

"Remind you of anyone you know?"

Shepard stands. "Very funny."

"But it isn't so different from melding. You never minded that." A blush crawls its way up her cheeks, surprising her.

Shepard notices and Liara's even more embarrassed. "That's different," Shepard says softly. She touches Liara's face, her thumb easing carefully along the warmth of her cheek. Liara knows how gentle those hands can be, how violent. They both pull away at the same time. Liara's heading to the door when Shepard calls after her. "Why didn't you respond to my emails?" she looks at the terminal. "I've been… I've been looking through everything I sent you. Sometimes I begged."

Liara's lips thin. Why does she have to keep bringing that up? How many ways can she say it without hurting her? "You lied to me, Shepard. You _lied_. You hurt me. You cheated on me. You were _different_. I didn't recognize you." Shepard swallows, clears her throat, looks away. Liara takes a step closer. She remembers the pressure on Shepard's fingers on her arm, the bruises, the scratches. She remembers Shepard kissing those later, her lips chapped but so careful. "You seem different now," she tells her cautiously. Shepard lifts her eyes. For an instant they pulse green. It's hard for Liara to look away. "Goddess, you confuse me. Thank you for agreeing to Eden Prime. I… was expecting resistance."

"You know I've never been able to say no to you."

Liara laughs dryly. "How hard did you hit your head on Tuchanka?"

"Pretty hard."

Liara smiles, easing a thumb along the cut on Shepard's eyebrow, pulling a soft hiss from her. Does it hurt? Does it burn? She's made her make that sound before, albeit in a different context. She tells herself not to think about it. "I can't say I mind."

"Me neither." Shepard's fingers close carefully around Liara's wrist. Liara is irritated, despite that she was the first to initiate the contact. Shepard lets her go and Liara finds herself wishing she hadn't. "Goodnight, Dr. T'Soni."

"Goodnight, Jane."

It slips out of her too easily. Jane has always liked it when she spoke like this. More intimately. But instead Shepard flinches like she's been slapped. Curious.


	27. Evidence

_Miranda,_

 _I'm happy to read you're alive, though… things sound like they could be better? Maybe I'm reading too much into it. There **is** a Reaper War going on. I hope you and any loved ones are safe. I can't say I know you well enough to say such a thing—but in times like these, I suppose it couldn't hurt. As much as you seem to know about me, I'm afraid I know next to nothing about you. I do know you're not in the Alliance. As much as I'd love to have you at a bigger disadvantage, I'm not able to give you any in-depth status report on Commander Shepard—no matter what charms you may be wielding. All I can say is—that she hasn't been unbearable recently. That's something, isn't it?_

 _Your ever-helpful friend,_

 _Samantha_

Miranda closes the email with a sigh. The sum of the intel she was able to gather on Shepard is that 'she hasn't been unbearable recently.' So much for her expert espionage skills. Samantha Traynor is _very charming_ a good officer. Of course she isn't going to offer up personal information about her commanding officer to a stranger. Miranda isn't sure what more she was expecting to accomplish.

Across the table, Oriana slurps down noodles like it might be her last meal. They got some ramen before finding a relatively quiet nook in the Presidium to sit down and wait for Rasa. Where the hell is she anyway? It's been over an hour since they arrived on the Citadel. She hasn't sent word, and she hasn't responded to any messages.

Oriana plunges her chopsticks into the bowl, swirling the noodles and chunks of meat in the salty broth. "This place is so cool, Sis." She glances up. "The sky looks real, like we're on a planet!" It's a typical reaction. Nobody is unimpressed the first time they visit the Citadel.

"Yes, it's 'cool,'" Miranda concedes. "But we're here to do a job, not sightsee."

Oriana rolls her eyes. "You're a real killjoy, you know that? Am I going to be as uptight as you when I'm old?" She cocks her head playfully. "When's the last time you got laid anyway? I know you haven't since I've been with you. And before that you were running around saving the galaxy or something." She leans forward. "Did you get some action on that ship?"

Miranda looks at her, eyebrows raised. " _That_ is none of your business."

"No, huh?" She shakes her head sadly.

Miranda throws a chopstick at her. "That'll be quite enough from you." Oriana sticks her tongue out at her, and Miranda can't entirely control the muscles pulling at the corners of her mouth. She checks her omni-tool. Still nothing from Rasa. Damn it. "You about done stuffing your face? It appears we're going to have to go fetch Rasa."

Oriana nods, shoveling a last piece of chicken into her mouth. "Okay." She chews, then points at a Keeper that has wandered into view. "Hey. What the hell is that thing?"

* * *

Liara sighs inwardly. How long did she dream of finding a Prothean? It was a silly wish. The Protheans were extinguished over 50,000 years ago and yet she had wanted to meet one, to ask questions, to understand their culture, their lives, their struggles in the Reaper War. Needless to say, Javik has been a disappointment. He is curt, morose and more often than not, rude.

He has provided nothing that could be of any value to the war effort and Shepard has no interest in pressing the matter further with him. What happened between them? Shepard later told her, somewhat hastily, of the vision she saw of the Prothean's final hours. Was that all it could be? Shepard said so but Liara has doubts.

The elevator doors to Engineering slide open. Shepard stands there, a somewhat arrogant smile on her lips upon seeing her. Liara wishes it were less becoming. Shepard steps to the elevator just as Liara is stepping out. Shepard moves left when Liara moves right, then right when Liara moves left. Shepard laughs softly, despite Liara's mounting irritation. "Lighten up," Shepard tells her, easily reading Liara's frustration. She keeps still as Liara is finally able to exit the elevator.

"I don't know that I can afford to 'lighten up,'" Liara returns. The same smile plays on Shepard's lips. She swears the woman likes seeing her frazzled. "And you're still a terrible dancer."

"Ouch." Shepard steps in, extending a hand to keep the doors open. "What are you up to?"

"I was going to check in with Javik." Liara doesn't miss how Shepard stiffens, how the smile falls from her lips. Liara is certain now. Shepard is hiding something. Maybe it's unimportant but she could stand to be a little less obvious about it. "Unless you would prefer I not." Not that she'll take Shepard's directive on this matter, but it might be telling.

Shepard buries her hands in her pockets and exhales. "Look, I know you have a thing for Protheans but the guy's a jerk," she shrugs. "You really want to waste your time?"

"It's my time to waste."

"Suit yourself, Dr. T'soni."

The elevator doors close, their eyes linked until they can no longer see one another. Liara leaves the area, feeling somewhat dizzy as she makes her way to Javik's quarters. The room is, she thinks, unreasonably cold. Thick power cords and hardware lie scattered about. He turns when he hears the door, his four golden eyes seeming to settle hatefully on her. _You're paranoid. Why are you still awed and intimidated by him?_

"Asari," he turns back to his water display. What is he writing? "Come to ask more questions about the Prothean empire? I've already told you what I know. None of it was helpful to my people. I doubt it could stop the Reapers in this primitive-led cycle."

"I didn't come about that," though she can't say she'd argue if he thought to offer anything. She moves closer, examining his armor. What material is it? How was it made? If he acted like a civilized person she might ask if she could touch it. As it stands he's already threatened to throw Joker out an airlock and she isn't convinced it's a bluff. "I want to talk to you about Shepard."

"Then go talk to her. I'm busy."

"This is important!" Things have been tense and… confusing. This war is taking it out of everybody. Garrus asked her before if she had noticed that Shepard was different. She'd denied it. But Shepard is different. Was different. And is different again—in that she's more like the Shepard she remembers. _That Shepard is gone._ Javik faces her, mouth parted in surprise, maybe indignation, before his eyes narrow. "I am sorry—I…" Liara swallows. "When you first came onboard the _Normandy_ … something happened between you and Shepard." His expression doesn't change. "Your sensory ability… you must… surely you must have gleaned something from her. Did you see something?"

"Asari. Why are you asking me questions you can very well ask her?" He steps closer, his fingers curling. "She is your commanding officer." He snorts. "For all your talk of interspecies diplomacy and cooperation, you still mistrust each other. Amusing."

Liara's cheeks heat. "It isn't what you think."

"Isn't it? You are here behind Shepard's back, asking me the questions you don't trust yourself to ask her—or trust her to answer." He lunges forward and takes hold of her arms tightly. Liara is frozen. She gets glimpses of his civilization, the empire that once stretched across the galaxy, before he releases her. She's breathless and momentarily dizzy. Is this what Shepard experienced? It's no wonder she was eager to be away from him. "You were lovers," he tells her curiously, maybe derisively. "I see."

"I'm not here to spy on her, if that's what you think."

"Tell yourself whatever you'd like."

"Javik, please. Whatever you may think of me—did you see something when you touched her? Something that was…" How does she put it? She doesn't know. She can't even articulate it to herself. "Something… strange?"

"I saw you," he reclines against a workbench crossing his arms. "And a good deal of blood. Your Shepard has killed many, sometimes brutally. It is necessary for this war. But I am not certain she can win it." He sighs. "Now get out, asari. I am done answering your questions."

* * *

Shepard sits in front of her computer terminal and tries to rationalize away her nervous energy. Unfortunately, any logical explanations she comes up with only make matters worse. How much did Javik see when he touched her? Does he know what she is? What she isn't? She massages her forehead and takes a breath. Whatever Javik tells Liara doesn't change things. There's still a war that needs to be won. _And if he tells her you're an imposter? And she confronts you?_ She'll lie. _Are you an imposter?_ How can she be? She has her memories. Things that returned to her, not anything gained from ciphers or melds with asaris. Her own memories. _They're not yours. They're Shepard's. You were created in a lab. You're not real._

She closes her eyes and argues the thoughts. She is Shepard. She is real. She'll accept it, believe it, do what needs to be done, die if she has to. There's no time to sulk, to doubt. She digs through the emails and pulls up Morinth's latest. How _is_ Morinth? _Where_ is Morinth? She begins a draft.

 _Samara,_

 _Thanks for taking care of things in my absence. I owe you one. I'd ask how you're doing but knowing you, you're one step ahead of the game. How's… that matter we discussed going?_

How's Hope? Is she all right? Are you watching over her? Is she making plans? Is she abandoning the whole stupid idea? Grace stares at the blinking cursor. She's more than capable of contacting Hope herself but… She shakes her head. No. Grace is gone. So it follows that Hope too must be gone. Neither of those names were ever really theirs. _Don't contact her._

The door to the cabin opens and Liara rounds the corner. Shepard looks at the screen and hurriedly shuts it off. Liara looks from the computer to Shepard before cocking her head. "Am I interrupting?"

"Let me guess, Javik told you to get lost?" Shepard tsks, despite the hammering of her heart. Did Javik tell her anything? _You never came up with a solution in case Liara questions you. You can lie all you want but if she wants to meld to verify any answers, you're screwed._ Liara isn't Joria. She isn't an Inquisitor. She won't be able to force those answers from her. "And now you're here. I'm the second choice. I see how it is."

"Oh, stop." Liara shakes her head. She appears more irritated than furious or betrayed. Javik didn't tell her anything. Nothing worthwhile, anyway. "Did you receive any pertinent correspondence?" she nods at the computer. "Anything I need to know?"

"Commander's eyes only. Sorry," she smiles apologetically but Liara doesn't buy it. Shepard gets to her feet. Liara remains where she stands but glances at her apprehensively. "Come to spy on me? Or are you just looking to flirt?" Liara crosses her arms. "I'm going with the spying but I'll happily let you prove me wrong."

"Shepard—be serious."

Easier done than said. Her smile vanishes and for moments they searchingly look at one another. "I'm waiting." Liara hesitates. "Did something happen?" A planet wiped out, Earth decimated, something worse? Liara shakes her head. "Spit it out."

"I know I've been short with you. When you came back onboard after Tuchanka… and even other times I've been…" She pauses, considers. "I haven't been pleasant. But… things are changing. I'm… so glad that you've reconsidered going after Cerberus." She wrings her hands nervously, puts them in her pockets before taking them out again. "With our focus where it should be… I think we have a real shot at this."

"I've been looking at the scientist dossiers you've forwarded." She requested them, wanting to know as much as she can about the war effort, but she doesn't delude herself into thinking that she has a better sense than Liara about who ought to be at the Crucible working on the project. "They're strong leads. Don't worry. We'll get that Crucible built," she grins. "Even if I have to send ex-Cerberus agents there on threat of death."

"You'd do that?" A smile teases at her lips but Liara keeps them firm. "Goddess, I can't tell when you're joking anymore."

"So ask."

"You probably shouldn't joke about Cerberus." Liara looks sidelong at her, licks her lips. Shepard looks away. Doesn't know what to do with her hands suddenly. "I went to Javik just now. I… was curious … if he saw anything when he touched you."

Shepard tenses. She fights to keep her jaw natural, to relax, to not argue, to not fight. "I figured as much. And?"

"He didn't offer much of anything," she averts her eyes before glancing back. "I'm sorry. I should have asked you." Shepard shrugs. "No, I'm serious. I just… I know how important this is. And we need to get everything absolutely right. Shepard—with how you've behaved before… I'm sorry—I haven't been sure how much I can trust you."

"And now?"

"I'm still not sure," she admits, "but I want to." Shepard nods stiffly. That's something. That's more than she expected. It's more than she can ask for. "From now on I'll go to you if I have questions. You're friendlier."

"Javik must really be a jerk."

"He is," Liara smiles, pokes Shepard's stomach, "but you give him good competition."

Shepard takes her wrist. She doesn't squeeze and Liara doesn't pull it away. Her eyes are wide and nervous the way they were years ago. It isn't difficult to maneuver Liara's back against the fish tank. Memories push to the surface. Their first kiss. _Shepard and Liara's._ No. Theirs. Liara rambled then. She talked nervously, uncertainly. She always apologized. Her eyes weren't hardened, her face wasn't so sharp. And somehow she's more beautiful than ever. Liara looks up at her. "I remember when you worried that nobody on the ship trusted you. They all came around. Now I'm the one facing a mutiny." Shepard's smile falters. "I need to know who's against me."

"No one." She shakes her head. "We're just… cautious. We must seem ungrateful, after everything you've done." Shepard is quiet. They're not angry at her. They're angry and wary of Shepard. But it's her name, her reputation, her alliances and relationships that have been put at risk. "For better or worse, you're all we have. I don't think any of us think we can do this without you."

Shepard laughs dryly. "Thanks for the vote of confidence." Her fingers loosen on Liara's wrist. "I know you have your doubts. And I know I've made mistakes. I can't say I know how any of this is going to turn out but I'm going to be giving it everything I've got. After everything I've done," she says tightly, "I know I don't have any right—but let me try to make it up to you."

Liara looks suddenly tired. "I'd like to believe you. But I've heard all of this before. Many times."

"I've changed." She keeps her voice light but it has no effect. Liara stares at her. In the dim light of the room, Shepard can't read her eyes. There was a time when she could read every line, every light that touched her features. "I'm sorry for every way I ever hurt you." She releases her. Her fingertips still cling to her warmth. Liara clears her throat gently. Shepard steps away, scratching at the scar on her eyebrow. "You should probably go." Liara exhales. "I don't know how to behave around you."

The _Normandy_ is filled with memories, despite the changes made to it since she first occupied it. Being around Liara is familiar and alien. Shepard finds herself fumbling through a part she played long ago, unaware of all the changes made to the script, all its nuances. She hates how her mouth goes dry around Liara, how Liara's eyes cut into her before softening, how her heart speeds, how she thinks and doesn't think of Hope.

Liara straightens her back along the fish tank, watching her curiously. "How do you want to behave?"

Shepard faces her. She brings a hand to Liara's neck, her thumb grazing along her jawline, easing over her bottom lip. Liara's face is defiant, challenging, knowing. "I'm not the only one who's different." Her lips hover over Liara's before she claims them. Liara touches Shepard's arm, presses a hand to her chest but her lips part. Their tongues brush and Shepard isn't sure which one of them draws breath, which one of them presses to the other. They kiss, at first hesitantly, followed by a slow, burning heat. Liara grips Shepard's Alliance shirt, making a soft moan of pleasure before pushing her away.

They stare at one another. Shepard can't find any words. Apologizing would be a lie. Finally Liara turns and walks away. Shepard, hot, angry at herself and conflicted, lets her.

* * *

Throngs of people shift through the Wards. Miranda's never cared for the area but it's where Rasa is holed up. It'll have to do. Thankfully, the influx of refugees has C-Sec so preoccupied that they can't possibly keep up. It isn't easy to sneak in but she has more opportunities than she would have previously.

It's fortunate, given that Cerberus is still on her ass and Oriana's been exposed to a life Miranda never wanted for her. The Wards are dark and at times, grimy. Miranda keeps hold of her pistol as they weave through the crowd. Oriana's eyes flit from space to space, absorbing everything she sees but she doesn't dawdle like before, her expression is determined, maybe tired.

It's all wrong. Miranda doesn't know how she could have done it differently, how it might have been better. Of all times to not have everything mapped out—now when she needs that attention to detail, those backup plans.

It isn't long before they arrive to where Rasa is staying. The building isn't as secluded as Miranda would like. It's not the spaces Rasa chose before. They go in, moving past a gaggle of giggling asari. The checkered tile floors gleam. "This is way better than where we've been staying," Oriana says.

"That remains to be seen," Miranda returns, hitting the button for the elevator. Oriana glances at her. "We can't stay long… don't expect to get comfortable."

"What is 'comfortable?'"

Miranda smiles wryly, apologetically maybe. They take the elevator up in silence. Oriana's face is sharper than it once was. Always on the run, always fighting, and they don't always have opportunities to eat. The girl should be in school. Bloody Niket. And her father. The man is a menace, a megalomaniac with no regard to anything or anyone outside of his wants and needs. Now he's gotten himself involved with the Illusive Man. They weren't enough for his genetic legacy. Now he's priming a human supremacist army. It's enough to make her head hurt. The elevator crawls to its destination and both women step out.

The hallway is bright and clean. Where the hell are they? Miranda makes her way to the apartment that Rasa indicated and knocks. They wait minutes and hear nothing. "Do you think she's okay?" Oriana asks. She's readying to open the door when Miranda shakes her head, pulls out the pistol and tries the door. It's unlocked. It swings open soundlessly. Miranda moves in, checking the perimeter, gun at the ready. Oriana trails behind her apprehensively.

They find Rasa in the bedroom, on her side and still on the bed. Miranda's blood runs cold. Did they kill her? Is she gone? Oriana pushes past Miranda, shakes Rasa's shoulder. Rasa jumps to alertness, withdrawing a pistol from beneath the pillow, pointing it at Oriana's face.

The air sparks around them. The hair on the back of Miranda's neck stand straight. It would only take a small biotic blow to snap Rasa's neck. She may not be Grace, she may not be Shepard or Samara but she's damned good with those.

"Hey, calm down," Oriana says nonplussed, slowly lifting a hand to push the gun aside. Rasa lets her. "It's just us." Rasa looks from Oriana to Miranda and then, it would seem, at the floor. Oriana stoops beside the bed, covering Rasa's hand gingerly with her own. Rasa's fingers curl but she doesn't pull them away. "Are you okay? Where's Grace?"

Rasa looks sharply at Miranda. For a moment Miranda is satisfied, happy to see that fire in her eyes, preferable to the husk she currently looks to be. Oriana looks between the two of them. Miranda's cheeks warm. She'd meant to get around to it. Maybe in the end she only thought of Grace as spare parts after all.

* * *

Miranda tries and fails to hide her impatience.

Rasa explains the events of Tuchanka and doesn't elaborate further. There's no point in elaborating. Grace is dead and no longer fits into the scheme of things. It isn't that talking about it is like knives slicing into her.

Miranda doesn't pursue the matter. She's got the necessary information and Rasa doubts Miranda is up for any emotional processing. They'd both need emotions for that. It makes them invulnerable to care about nothing. Oriana remains Miranda's Achilles Heel. Luckily, Rasa has nothing now.

She contemplates the information Miranda has shared but finds it difficult to focus. Her thoughts are difficult to hold onto. She tries to touch them but they're ungraspable. Fog. She looks at Miranda who hovers close, a thin line cutting into her brow. "These politicians keep everything on their computer terminals. Udina's no different. I have a plan. It'll be difficult but if we work together I think…"

Rasa wonders if Grace thought of her as she died. What did she think of? Did Grace die thinking she didn't believe in her? _For good reason._ Where did she go wrong? She got Grace the best trainers. She got her the best upgrades. She didn't want to go in Cerberus' direction of implants, making her synthetic. Was it a mistake? Maybe the mistake was involving herself. Their relationship _it wasn't that_ was meant to be encouragement. A carrot where she had once been a stick.

Did she make her soft? Her shoulder aches. She touches her fingers to it, counting the stitches to herself, recalling the heat and push of the omni-blade, the squishy sound, followed by a crunch, a fountain of blood and _still_ she finds herself feeling…

"What do you think?" Miranda asks, the tone of her voice indicating it isn't the first time she's asked.

"I'm in," Rasa says, but to what she agrees she isn't sure. It's easier to agree. Fighting takes too much energy.

* * *

Rasa stares at the laptop screen but Oriana isn't sure she's seeing anything. Her eyes, usually so sharp, precise, almost predatory, have been muted and glazed since they reunited. She's smaller somehow. She's lost weight. Oriana is certain of that but there's something more. Normally she'd focus, fixate, analyze and come to a conclusion. But she can't right now because Miranda is being a pain in her ass.

"Well?" Miranda waits. It's strange looking into her face. Her own face. Good to know she'll be a knockout when she's older. If she gets to live to be 'older.' She wonders if they're really sisters. Or if they're only as much sister as Shepard and Grace are—were. The reminder jabs painfully into her. Shit. How? **_Why?_** It doesn't make sense. No wonder Rasa's a wreck. "Do you understand?"

Oriana rests her chin in her palm and gazes at Miranda, her eyes narrowing. "No, I don't understand," she gets to her feet and crosses her arms. "Forget it."

That uncertainty on Miranda's face again. It only comes around her. Other times she's bold, ruthless, confident. "Ori—," she's apologetic, "This isn't up for debate. You'll remain here while Rasa and I investigate—"

"Why do I have to stay here? As if I haven't been doing this for nearly a year now?" She shakes her head, "Stop treating me like a child."

"It will be dangerous—"

"Right, and Rasa's a better candidate? Look at her. She couldn't infiltrate a cardboard box."

"I can bloody hear you, you know," Rasa shoots back. She slams the laptop shut and exits the living room, retreating towards the bedroom. Off to sleep again, Oriana is sure. This is so stupid. Grace shouldn't be dead.

"That was rude," Miranda says.

"Are you kidding? You used to be so much worse. I don't mind her," she shrugs and takes a seat on the couch that Rasa vacated. "So, can we just forget all of this? I'm not going to work on that stupid Crucible. I get that I'm a genius and they could use scientists, but I'm not interested."

"I'm sorry that I led you to believe that this matter was up for debate. It's not."

Oriana looks at her. Miranda has crossed her arms, mirroring her moments earlier. Oriana gets to her feet again. Miranda's eyes are cold, her demeanor decisive. Oriana grits her jaw. "You can't tell me what to do. You are not my mother. You're not even really my sister." She doesn't know how much she means the words. Miranda flinches. Oriana moves past her. "How are you any better than our 'father?'" She demands. "You've _kidnapped_ me, made me follow you around for months, have told me where I can be and when. I'm of age! And now you're deciding my future? I didn't want any of this."

"Everything I have done has been to keep you safe," Miranda is irritated, defensive, "this is what's best for everybody. Stop being so childish. There are people hunting me, hunting both of us. There are things I need to do and I can't do them if I have to worry about you—"

"So you're getting rid of me. Great," she laughs dryly, her eyes beginning to burn. "You're just pawning me off onto more strangers." They may be clones but they're family. Or the closest thing a clone can have to family. She wipes at her cheeks hastily, embarrassed at her tears, despite how effective they seem to be. Miranda looks uncertain. "You can't tell me what to do. You can't run my life. It's mine to decide what to do with." She goes to the door and yanks it open. "Have fun infiltrating without me."

She runs.

* * *

"I need what you have on Shepard."

Udina startles at the voice that shouldn't be there. A figure shifts in the black. It's after hours and the embassies are shut down—except maybe to Spectres but no Spectre would dare to come into his office. This isn't Kaidan. It sure as hell isn't Shepard. Udina stands from his desk and stares. He sees legs. The rest of the figure is draped in shadows.

"Do you have any idea where you are?" he demands. Security on the Citadel has gone to hell! If they'd stop letting in so many refugees they might be able to shore up protection for the Council. One Spectre and C-Sec security isn't enough to keep him safe. "Show yourself."

His voice doesn't shake. Instead it's filled with his usual ire. The person steps from the black. A woman. Attractive, with dark skin, dark eyes. He's seen eyes like that when he's been made to visit the refugee wards. Lost. Haunted. Void. The stare is familiar, but he's never seen her before. Who the hell does she think she is? "I don't know who you are," he says, "and I don't know who the hell let you in but you have exactly one—"

She pulls a knife and he stops. It looks flimsy. Like plastic but it's real. He knows it's real. "I'm not here to talk, Udina. I want what you have on Shepard." She's approaching and before he knows it she's on him. His heart is weak, he goes dizzy. She's fast. A hand is buried in his short cropped hair and somehow she has a grip. She yanks his head to the side and the blade pushes into his neck. "I know you have it."

"I don't know what you're talking about—"

Her fingers squeeze into his face, the knife burying deeper until he feels a cut, the heat of blood. He yelps. "You've kept something. In case things don't work out. In case you need a way out." Her face is close to his now, dark eyes examining him, deconstructing him. "I can guess. 'Shepard made me do it?' Is that your play?"

"N-No," he stammers, his eyes darting between her mouth and her eyes. What does she know? How does she know? Sweat runs down his face, his neck, suddenly pouring out of him like guilt. "I don't—"

The knife digs in further. "Shepard is a valuable commodity to both of us," she hisses. He searches her eyes but there's nothing in them, nothing he can appeal to. "We promised you aid, Udina, but we won't be extorted. Shepard won't be extorted. This war is too important to have you screwing it up with your political bullshit."

She shoves him and he falls back against the desk. He gathers his balance and quickly moves around the desk. "You're Cerberus?" he asks. He's terrified. Elated. Relieved. "Please don't hurt me," he blathers, "I'm complying. I'm giving you what I promised as long as you hold up your end of the bargain…! Aid to—"

She catches him again. She's so fast. She pushes the knife deeper into his neck and he squeezes his eyes shut. "Shh," she breathes. "You'll get your aid. But first you'll give me everything you have on Shepard. And if you hold out on me—"

"All right! Stop! Maker, let me go." He finds himself accommodated much sooner than he expected and he crashes to the floor. Udina crawls from her, a hand to his neck before he gets to his feet, his legs numb, knees jelly, neck on fire. He goes to the computer terminal and enters his password, digs up the files. "This is all of it. I give you my word—"

The woman only scoffs, slipping a jump drive into the terminal. They begin to download. She tests the files for seconds. Shepard appears on screen, in mid-conversation with The Illusive Man. The woman stares at the images, emotion flooding into her eyes before it disappears again. The files go onto the jump drive and then they disappear from the computer. Udina heaves for breath as the woman looks at him emotionlessly. "If Shepard finds out about these, she'll kill you personally. I'm not sure you should trust her."

Udina pales further. Shepard has always been like a bull in a china shop. He can't fault her for teaming up with Cerberus. Like him, she's only utilizing the necessary resources to win this war. But what if the stranger is right? What if Shepard finds out? What would she do? Udina is still mulling it over when C-Sec finally storms the room. The woman is gone, as is any sense of security Udina thought he may have had.

* * *

"Where the hell have you been?" Miranda snatches Rasa's wrist. There's blood on her hands. She glares. "What have you done?"

She's surrounded by toddlers. Oriana took off to who knows where. When Miranda went to Rasa's bedroom to rouse her, she found her gone as well. Where did she sneak off to? Oh no… Rasa's lips stretch in both directions, an impersonation of a smile that Miranda is grateful doesn't reach her eyes. "I've got our bloody evidence against Shepard. Now let go of me while you still have a pretty face."

Miranda lets her go. Rasa moves past her, fishing into her pocket and retrieving a jump drive that she throws at her. She takes a seat on the couch. "It isn't only Shepard. It's Udina too, like we suspected. Udina's desperate. Whatever he promised Cerberus it must have been big for them to entertain him."

"Probably," Miranda says warily. "Please don't tell me you killed the human councilor." Rasa smiles, shrugs. "What happened to our plan?" The plan that Miranda had plotted out in great detail, had explained to Rasa more times than she cares to count, the bloody plan that Rasa agreed to. Miranda sits next to her and plugs the jump drive into the computer to download the contents. "You're out of control."

"You wanted evidence, I got you evidence."

"And who knows how much you left behind," she practically snarls. She meets her eyes. "I'm… surprised at you." For a brief moment, Rasa's eyes are bright and mocking. "I heard you call Grace an 'it' before. Theoretically, she was nothing more to you than she was to me. But you're…" Miranda draws a breath. "I can't have you around Ori if you're going to be like this. You're becoming a liability."

Miranda turns her attention to the contents of the jump drive. She pulls up the files and begins going through them. There are videos of Shepard conversing with the Illusive Man via QEC. The audio is sketchy, sometimes garbled, other times cutting out completely for seconds at a time. Udina's crude attempts at obscuring the sections that directly implicate him? Most likely. Still, there's enough to tell the story. There's talk of the clones, Tuchanka, the genophage, other Cerberus operations. In one clip, the Illusive Man tells Shepard to maintain her distance from the Citadel when the time comes.

She puzzles over the last, playing and replaying the segment, looking to give the remark context, but she finds only the frustration of static, missing audio, or discussion of irrelevant ops. Why would the Illusive Man want Shepard to stay away from the Citadel? When the time comes for what? How is Udina involved in all this? What are they planning?

 _Cerberus is going to take the Citadel._

Shit. That's the answer. It has to be. They'll assassinate the other Council members and appoint Udina as their puppet in charge. She looks to where Rasa is sitting. "We need…" Blast. She's gone again, just up and walked away. She shakes her head, frowning in frustration as she weighs her options.

She could forward the evidence to the other Council members. Udina would be suspended for investigation. Shepard would be disgraced, branded a traitor and a war criminal. She'd run, she'd fight, and eventually she'd be killed or captured.

No. Whatever else Miranda might believe, however misguided Shepard might be, they need her in the fight if they're to have a chance of winning this war. They never would have defeated Saren, Sovereign or the Collectors without her. They won't defeat the Reapers without her. Miranda can fix this. She believes that. It's what she's always believed.

It's decided then. The Council can never see this evidence. But there's someone who should. She begins typing.

* * *

They flee at the sight of her.

Liara stalks through the _Normandy_ halls, taking the elevator to Shepard's cabin. Time after time she has told herself to not be gullible. Everything she endured to bring Shepard back and what came of it? The elevator hums upward and Liara tries to contain the bitterness, disappointment, rage she feels. Miranda made contact. She enclosed only one video but it was damning enough. _I'm sorry. You needed to know. Rasa and I are on site and will deal with the situation as best we can. I cannot stress enough how important it is to not confront Shepard._

Liara doesn't know who Rasa is but she won't take orders from Miranda. She will not wait while others think of how to act. Part of her is humiliated. She should have known. How could she think that she could salvage what barely resembled a body and get back the woman she loved? She should have known. She did know. She melded with Shepard only once since her return. She didn't lie when she told Shepard she saw nothing. Shepard worried so much over it. There's a part of a person, an essence, a spark—something Liara once saw, once recognized, but it was absent in their most recent union. How could Liara tell her that she didn't return whole? It still hurts thinking of it. She fumbled in the darkness and found nothing.

How devastating. It was a confirmation that Shepard was gone. She had to mourn her a _gain._ She was grateful for the Shadow Broker network. She could bury herself in data, in facts, in information, much like she did on her dig sites years ago. She reveled in that isolation. It was sanctuary. She has been such a fool. Shepard isn't different, Shepard isn't better, she's just better at lying. To think, that Shepard kissed her, that she allowed it, had even enjoyed it! It had been difficult to leave that room, to not see it through. Something about it had felt…

 _Goddess, you stupid fool, do not think of it. She is gone. She is dead. She has been for years. Will this finally be enough for you to accept it? Science cannot trump death. Science cannot rebuild souls._

The door to the cabin opens. Shepard is at the desk, an Alliance fighter model in hand. She's been working on those more often. The case is starting to fill up. She smiles. An instant later it fades. "What's wrong?"

Liara balls her fists at her sides. "EDI. Privacy mode." She can't have the blabbermouth AI seeing or hearing what's about to happen.

EDI's warm voice fills the cabin. "I'm sorry, Liara. Only Commander Shepard has—"

Shepard interrupts. "Do it, EDI."

"Yes, Commander."

Shepard looks to her, worry in her eyes. "Now what's—"

Shepard goes watery, blurry before she's flung back. Liara sees her own fingers, pale, blue, shaking outstretched, glowing with biotics. Shepard groans, slumps to the floor. The fish tank glass is cracked, splintering into cobwebs. "I wanted to trust you!" Liara says. Shepard tries to get up, a hand flat against the glass of the fish tank but Liara throws her back again. Shepard crashes into the wall beside the bed, her side colliding hard against the nightstand. Her eyes settle on her, vibrant and green. They never did that before. She should have known she was an imposter. "Was it amusing for you to lie to me? To deny your Cerberus involvement?"

"Liara—"

"I know you're working with the Illusive Man."

"No—"

"I have evidence, Shepard!" Her voice is raw. Shepard stills. Her eyes fade back to their hazel color. How deceptive they are. They look like her eyes. They look warm, afraid. "You monster." Liara walks closer, feeling the tears hot on her face. "You've betrayed everyone who believed in you, everything you pretended to stand for. Garrus knew what you were. I defended you, the best that I could." Her throat locks up. Is this what Javik knew about her? "Goddess, why did I bring you back?" Shepard flinches, her eyes going flat. "Tali's dead because of you. So many others. I wanted you back… so desperately—the things I did—the …thing I had to become… and this is all we get." She laughs caustically. When she speaks again she doesn't recognize her voice. "You're just a pale imitation of the real thing." She shakes her head. "I want you off this ship." She reaches to her side and pulls out the M-4 Shuriken. Shepard looks at it. Will Shepard try to kill her? Will she wait for her to let her guard down? "I'll make an excuse to Hackett. I won't have you dooming another cycle."

"Liara—"

"Shut up." She inches closer, points the gun at her face. It looks so beautiful, so hurt. "Get down on your knees." Shepard sinks to her knees. "Put your hands behind your head. So help me, Shepard," she sniffles, "what I feel for you doesn't matter. What I feel isn't for anyone who exists anymore." Shepard puts her hands behind her head. She trembles. Why? Is it only that she got caught? Is she embarrassed? Shepard underestimated her. There are traitors in every war, she'd said. Goddess. Liara never anticipated that Shepard would be the greatest one. Should she kill her? **_Yes._** Shepard looks small and sorry. Her eyes are closed. She's talking under her breath. Her chest heaves. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

"Yes." Her voice is hoarse and small. Shepard's eyes open, focus on her, startlingly green once more. They shimmer. "I'm not Jane."

* * *

Purgatory is alive.

Oriana smells perfume and cologne, the faint distant smell of sweat and alcohol. The music is deafening, the frantic beat rattling her heartbeat. The lights splash over men and women, humans, aliens, who smile brightly, laugh and dance as if all hell isn't breaking loose. Is this what it's like to have a normal life? Is this what it's like to not be hunted by Cerberus?

She moves further into the club, smiling at the men and women who watch her pass by but don't take a deeper interest. She's grown used to those stares, those knowing looks of those who want something from her—usually some bounty that can be gained with her capture or Miranda's death. She stares up at the asari and human women dressed provocatively, dancing even more so on an arrangement of platforms. A flush crawls up her cheeks. Jeez, where the hell is she?

 _Away from Miranda, leading your life._ Whatever, so she'll start in a club. Maybe she'll meet a cute Alliance officer who'll take her traveling. _Straight to the front lines. Adjust your ambitions and expectations, Ori._ Bah. She wanted to go to the U, she wanted to work on colony development. Or maybe play violin… her parents (the people she thought were her parents) supported her every decision. She tries not to think of their deaths, that they were killed because she existed, because she was important to Miranda and Henry Lawson.

 _Still…_ she does like Miranda. She's all that's left. What is she going to do without her? What if Miranda gets herself killed doing something stupid and brave? Oriana sighs unhappily. _Go drink something. Go get laid. Go get laid before you die a virgin._ Ugh, the idea is mortifying. As if she could meet a cute scientist up there. They're probably all old. She heads to the bar, much unhappier than she expected to be once she got an ounce of freedom.

She wonders if she dodged Miranda or if Miranda let her go. Both seem improbable and likely in one. Miranda, Rasa and Grace taught her well in the time they spent together. She isn't the helpless kid she once was so why does she still feel like such a drag? She fights her way to the bar and waits patiently between the hordes of people waiting to be served.

Despite her attempts to catch the bartender's eye she's repeatedly skipped over. She raises a hand before quickly lowering it. _This isn't class, you idiot._ Ugh, how is she related to Miranda _because you were cloned_ , Miranda would never be this dorky. She turns to the side, and stops.

Samara. Her profile is striking. She's dressed in black huntress leathers. A man is talking to her animatedly. Her eyes flick over him but there's no approval there. She catches Oriana's gaze and smiles at the man, touching a hand to his chest and moving away.

Oriana suspects she's heading her way but she doesn't—she moves past the bar, past the crowd of people and retreats to a dark corner, nestling into the curved couches. Oriana forgets ordering a drink—she won't get one before the Reapers hit at this rate anyway, and follows after her. "Samara!" Oriana shouts over the loud music. Samara ignores her. Undeterred, Oriana falls into the seat beside her and looks at her.

Her eyes are dark—which is weird, given how pale they are. "Hey," Oriana says breathlessly, she isn't sure whether it's from excitement or nerves. "I didn't know you were here. I like your outfit. Maybe we can get Miri to change out of her thing, too," she says with a nervous grin. She worries people won't see Miranda as anything more than some bombshell with the skintight clothing she wears. Maybe people think imaginations are overrated.

"Oriana." Her voice is different. She sounds like someone else. "Your sister isn't here. Rasa isn't here. Making a run for it?"

"Yeah, something like that. Uh—are you okay? You seem…" Oriana tries to search for a word that isn't 'different,' that isn't 'younger' but nothing comes to mind. "Um—how've you been?" Samara shrugs. "I heard about Grace. It _sucks._ " Samara stares at her evenly. "Um… so hey, you have a drink," she nods at the colorful concoction in front of Samara, at the liquid she pours into it. "I've been trying for like half an hour up there. Help a girl out?"

Samara smiles, inches the drink forward to her. "Go on."

"Oh. I didn't mean yours! I mean—you're probably better at getting people's attention than I am."

"If that's what I want." Samara scoots closer, puts her hand on the table, near Oriana's. "You've changed. Yes, I see it. You're no longer satisfied with following rules. Sometimes you shouldn't, you know. Sometimes you have to do what you like. Take what you like. No one else is going to give it to you. Rasa knows that. Miranda knows that. I know that. Shepard knew that," she smiles warmly. Her voice is soft. "You're old enough. It's time you learned that too. You should do what you like before it's too late." Samara's closer. Somehow, it feels like she's all around her. The music falls away. "Look into my eyes, Oriana."

 _What…?_ Oriana doesn't speak, can't speak. Can only think. Samara's eyes are hypnotic. Oriana stares into them, transfixed. She's beautiful. And smart. And powerful. _Shepard knew that._ Samara pushes the drink at her again until it nudges her fingertips, Samara's fingertips glance along her knuckles. Oriana breathes shallowly. Samara's eyes are getting darker. She could drown in those eyes. Wants to drown in them. In her. She never knew she wanted it until now.

Somewhere, very far away, there's a bang.

Samara looks away. When she does the music comes back, the world they left behind flooding in. Someone screams, then there are lots of screams. Then there are gunshots. Oriana stands but Samara remains seated. She has a drink.

* * *

"You're lying."

Liara insisted on walking her out of the cabin, a hand tentatively on her shoulder, the barrel of the Shuriken pressed to her spine. A bullet squeezed and she'd be paralyzed. It's after hours and the majority of the _Normandy_ crew is asleep or otherwise occupied. EDI has been ordered to turn off all the surveillance cameras. Shepard thinks she's grateful. Liara prodded her until they arrived at her first cabin, the one she remembers, the one swimming with memories of them.

Liara would have never held a gun to her before. What's happened? Everything is wrong. Shepard sits on the bed, omni-cuffs shackled around her wrists behind her back. If this were any other circumstance she'd make a joke but she's all out. Tali's dead. Liara's different. Garrus doesn't trust her. It's all Shepard's fault. But she's Shepard now. _You're just a pale imitation of the real thing._ She grits her jaw.

Tear trails stain Liara's cheeks. Shepard told Liara how Jane died on Tuchanka. How she herself is just one clone of many. The whole thing sounds so stupid. Blasto has a more realistic premise. Her life is a joke. A bad B-movie. And if it isn't, what does she have left? The hatred, mistrust and contempt of those she cares about most.

 _Do you really care_? Maybe the memories are tricking her into thinking she cares. It'd be easier not to care. Maybe she's just a clone. She was only ever meant to replace Shepard, to be a lone wolf. Liara and Garrus were never part of the plan. _You could kill Liara and continue the mission. **No.**_ Her stomach clenches at the thought, she feels a sick wave of dizziness.

"I'm not lying." She says.

Liara keeps the gun on her. "How can you expect me to believe any of this? Do you know how pathetic it sounds?" Shepard squirms. "A copy could never beat Shepard."

"Maybe she was the copy," she half-smiles. Liara cocks the gun. Shepard swallows. A copy could never beat Shepard. Shepard trounced her the first time. What was wrong with her? Was she implanted? She was so strong. Hope didn't think she could beat Shepard. What is Hope doing? Moving on. Plotting? Or is she over it? Does she miss her? Does she even have it in her? Does she think of her? Maybe she shouldn't. Maybe Liara will blow her brains out. She knows what it looks like. What it would look like. Would she be smiling, like Shepard was? "I told you, she killed herself."

"She wouldn't."

"She was indoctrinated. She knew it. She told me to tell you she was sorry," she smiles now. "'Sorry.'" Liara forges forward. For an instant Shepard thinks it's over, that she'll pull the trigger. Instead Liara rears her hand back and slaps her. The slap is loud. It turns her face. She feels the palm print forming. She laughs a little, her eyes stinging.

"Stop lying," Liara curls her fingers, touches them. Does she feel the heat? The building numbness? Does it feel good to hit her? Liara has changed. It shouldn't be as fascinating as it is. Shouldn't she mourn the loss of her innocence? "I don't know why I'm—even indulging this ridiculous story of yours! You are not dead—not—Goddess, you're gone. Whoever you were is gone. But there are no clones. This is only another contrived story, Shepard, to get back into my good graces."

"Is it working?" She braces herself for another hit. It doesn't come. Liara looks at her, so void of emotion that Shepard feels some part of herself hurt, some piece of her grieve for what she's done to her. "I know it sounds crazy. I only found out myself what I was…am… " she bows her head, hates how futile her existence has been, hates how open to mockery it is. "It doesn't matter. Look—you can meld with me—" Liara's features twist into disgust. Shepard swallows the feelings associated with it. "It could be like before—like when we first met on the _Normandy_ — after Therum—"

"So which is it, Shepard? Are you a clone or are you the real Shepard—"

"I'm—"

The heat in her voice builds. "If you're a fake then how could you know anything about Shepard and me on the _Normandy_? How could you know how we met?"

"I remember. I… I don't know how to explain," she says and hates how small her voice is. If only it were as simple as knowledge. But the memories are there, vivid, piercing. She knows the heat of the blast that tore the _Normandy_ apart and then the cold of endless space, the fire in her lungs, the stars. "I don't know how to explain, I don't know how to explain," she whispers the words to herself, closes her eyes. How preposterous. Her entire 'existence' was crafted to fool everyone into thinking she's Shepard. Now she has to convince Liara she isn't. How is this happening? Who exposed Shepard? Why would they now? _Fuck them._ Not that it matters. Liara's waiting for explanations. "Ah—over a year ago—almost two years ago I was in New Canton. The Collectors hit." Liara stares at her, eyes just as dead as before, "and—we've met a few times. On Illium. It—was—you had someone bring me. You said—we kissed." Liara's eyes narrow. "You said my face looked better. I've been working with Miranda—I stopped the attack at Grissom. Check with Kahlee Sanders—or Jack—" Liara's eyes shift now. Shepard, sensing this is her only opportunity, hurries. "And on the Shadow Broker ship—when you yelled at me about the Collector Base—I wanted to know where the Cerberus labs were. That was me. I was trying to wipe them out. I don't work for Cerberus. You're the Shadow Broker. Figure it out."

Liara cocks her head slightly, a hint of confusion playing across her features. "You said something about working with Miranda?"

"Yes! She was sending intel to Hope—Rasa—whatever her real name is, I don't know anymore." Liara's eyes widen slightly at something she just said. "She said it was coming from you. The stuff Shepard—Jane—was letting slide. So I left Earth. I left Anderson behind, and we went to Grissom and we saved Kahlee and those kids. Went to Benning, too, but we were too late," she looks down, her voice trailing off. "Goddamn Cerberus."

"I don't believe you." But doubt is beginning to creep into her voice. Incredulity. "Why would you hate them? They brought you back. You've been working with the Illusive Man."

"It wasn't me!" She gets to her feet, rushes at her. Liara lifts the Shuriken, presses the barrel to her forehead. Shepard breathes raggedly. To be accused of working for the enemy, to have to bear the responsibility of all of Shepard's actions… it's too much. "I was nothing to them! For Miranda and Hope and Cerberus. I was the spare parts! For **_her! Fuck_** Cerberus. **_Fuck_** Jane Shepard. **_Fuck_** this mess she left behind! I should have killed her myself." The words tumble out, a wave of hatred surging through her.

It strikes her as childish to be angry at how unfair life is. She's lightheaded. Her existence was built on the premise of being Shepard. That moment is gone now. She's been exposed. There is no way to keep her command and hold on to her false identity. That is somehow her real identity. And now that she's outed herself as a clone, her entire purpose is invalidated.

"I never meant for you to find out. I never wanted for any of this to hurt you. I didn't **_want_** this. But I couldn't let her keep working for Cerberus. Do whatever you want. Good luck winning this war without me." She hears more than feels the thud, the blossoming pain across her temple. Then she's falling. Black crowds around her vision. Liara stands over her, the barrel of the Shuriken in hand, sad and contemplative.


	28. The Coup

The Illusive Man frowns as he gently taps his cigarette, depositing ashes into a small tray. He stares at the message that arrived in his inbox moments ago.

 _Illusive Man,_

 _You should be more careful. Contact me._

 _ML_

There's a video clip attached. A curious thing, Miranda Lawson reaching out to him now. For months he's been sending assassins and hit squads after her, and yet she continues to be a thorn in his side. Her continued survival is a validation of the drive and intelligence that led him to recruit her. She's as capable an operative as he's ever had. Without her, Lazarus wouldn't have been possible. She was every bit as vital to the success of that project as Wilson was. A pity that she lost sight of what Cerberus was about, that she couldn't see the big picture. It's as Shepard said. She's too _sentimental_.

He views the video file. It contains footage, about five seconds, of a QEC conversation between himself and Shepard. Shepard, who he hasn't heard from since Tuchanka. He instructed her to stay away from the Citadel until after the coup, but he has questions about what happened on the krogan homeworld. The krogan are reporting that the genophage has been cured. He knows the dalatrass reached out to Shepard with a fake cure. Were the krogan fooled, or did Shepard flinch? He has his own scientists looking into the matter, but they say it will be weeks before their tests yield conclusive results.

X8 was present in the Kelphic Valley. She prevented the turian bomb from going off. If Shepard's intuition was correct, X8 may well have proceeded to the Shroud to confront her. He has little doubt Shepard would win such a confrontation, as she did once before. Still, the lack of contact is troubling. Furthermore, there has been no new intel on the clone's whereabouts or activities. What happened down there?

Those questions will have to wait. Time to see what Miranda's game is. He establishes a link, using the old protocols with which she is familiar. Her image appears, small, slightly distorted by her omni-tool's scanner, visible only from the waist up. She looks well put together, confident. She always did know how to make an impression. "Hello, Miranda."

"Illusive Man."

He drags a lungful of smoke from his cigarette. "I trust you've been well?"

"No thanks to you."

"I regret that things had to happen this way," he says with a slight nod of conciliation. "I hope you understand that it isn't personal. It was never less than a pleasure working with you." The words are at once sincere and meaningless.

She scowls. "I'm not here for a letter of recommendation."

"Oh?." He leans back. "And just what do you want, Miranda?"

"I want you to call it off."

"I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific."

She crosses her arms and shifts her weight to the other leg. "The coup. I know you and Udina are conspiring to assassinate the Council and take control of the Citadel."

He nods slowly. Impressive. "Assuming what you say is true, why should I do as you ask?"

"Because if you don't, I'll turn all the evidence I have over to C-Sec."

He ponders for a moment before exhaling a cloud of smoke. "I don't think so. If you were inclined to do that, you would already have done so. You know it would incriminate Shepard as well."

She shakes her head. "Turning Shepard into a fugitive isn't my first choice, but that doesn't mean you should test me."

He nods. "I understand. You brought her into this world. You feel responsible for her. You want her to succeed. I can respect that. But I'm afraid it's simply too late."

"What—"

"Good bye, Miranda." He terminates the connection.

* * *

The waiter sets the bottle of sake on the table at the same moment Kaidan catches the woman waving from a distance. He doesn't recognize her and glances behind him; a couple waves hesitantly back to the woman. Kaidan sighs. He can't remember the last time anyone knocked on his door to grab a meal together. Well, at least he's got his sake and after months of waiting, his reservation at the posh sushi place in the Silver Sun Strip.

Maybe being a Spectre has its perks. Not that he can think of many so far. The job has been more laid back than he expected. Then again, the Council don't run around throwing themselves into danger – while Shepard always went out of the way to do just the opposite. It's a good thing, this gig. Second human Spectre. It's a big deal. He tries to stay humble about it and he tries not to let his parents' praise go to his head.

Now, if he can only find his old biotic students—he could rest easy. Real easy. Keeping an eye on the Citadel isn't too bad. He's lucky. He expected to be on the _Normandy_ longer than he was and it's only recently that the bruises from that machine have faded away. Things are getting back on track. He's only hoping Shepard can handle her end. Then when the war is over… well, who knows. Maybe he'll meet a nice girl, a nice guy, something. Still, hell of a thing, Cerberus making the headway they are.

If he didn't know better… No. He can't think like that. He pours himself a small glass of sake and takes a drink. It's dryer than he expected, sour. Huh. He has a bite of inari, enjoying the sweet flavor, nearly choking on it when the waving woman breaks free from the French waiter and runs to his table. "Ah, Sir! Major Alenko! Uh, please!" The waiter wraps an arm around her waist, "a moment of your time! Will you let go of me!" She tries to elbow the man, misses terribly and nearly falls face first into the table.

Jeez, she's clumsy. Still, she's in an Alliance uniform, and he's got a soft spot for his guys, whoever they are. "Uh—it's fine," he says to the waiter.

"Will you let go!" She shouts. A few of the patrons look over. He studies her. Dark, attractive, ebony hair in a ponytail. Her eyes are lighter than he would have expected. Are they blue or brown? "Oh, gosh, I am so, so, so sorry to have caused a scene. Man! This place is great! I've been trying to get in here for ages," she sits opposite of him, "can I sit?"

"Uh—sure," he says. He'd been lamenting the slow turn of things. This is unexpected, at least. "Can I help you?"

"Yes…!" she lowers her voice, looks around surreptitiously and scoots forward. "Wow, I can't believe I'm sitting here with a human Spectre. A very proud day for humanity," she rambles, "Oh, yes, sorry. Getting carried away. Why I came—this is very important. I have—oh, yes, I should introduce myself. Maya Brooks. Staff Analyst Maya Brooks—I have information and I don't know who else I can go to. The Council—the Citadel is in danger—" Kaidan's heart thumps. Is it possible? C-Sec has everything locked up—so he thought. They've been monitoring all the feeds— "I was listening to my—I've been digging through the channels—Oh, God, it's all too boring to explain—but here," she speaks even more quietly now, "I can give you the proof you need."

Kaidan squares his jaw, meal forgotten. It might be a fluke and she might be zealous and crazy… but even so… "Let's see what you have."

* * *

Cerberus is everywhere.

Cortez glides the shuttle down and Shepard—or whatever the person that looks like Shepard is—is pale and sweaty. Her breathing is erratic. Garrus catches Liara's eye. She shakes her head.

"All right," Shepard slips the helmet on, "we go in fast and we give them no quarter. These fuckers aren't taking the Citadel on my watch."

"That's the spirit, Shepard," a sliver of approval creeps into his voice. Of all times. Liara thinks the universe must be playing a cosmic joke on her. The shuttle door opens. Goddess. There are even more than she thought down there. "What do you think, up for a little competition? Loser buys winner dinner."

"Hell, Garrus, if you're trying to ask me out, come out and say so."

Garrus harrumphs and hops out of the shuttle. Shepard takes a step forward, hand on the entry of the shuttle when Liara grabs her arm. "Don't do that." Her eyes are unreadable behind her visor. Hazel and squelched of emotion, not like the fire that overtook her hours ago. She has a large lump on her forehead from where Liara pistol whipped her. She blacked out. Liara investigated. Some of her story checks out. She doesn't want to give it credence, doesn't want to believe it. If she does, that other Shepard—her Shepard…? Is dead. And this… thing… _It's another story, don't buy into it. For all you know she knew there was enough there to fill your head with lies._ "Don't be friendly with him."

"You getting jealous?"

"I'll be watching your every step." Liara's hand squeezes tighter, a blue pulse moving through her. Shepard's eyes flash hot and green. "Don't think I won't hesitate to put a bullet in you."

"You already have." Shepard jumps into the fray. What does that mean? Has she hesitated? She hasn't shot her? Damn Shepard for playing more of her mind games. Liara follows reluctantly after her. It had to be Garrus for this mission. The others don't know Shepard like he does. It's painful watching them. It feels like old times but Garrus doesn't know that she is the greatest threat to the Reaper war, the greatest war criminal, perhaps in all of history. _So tell him._ No. It wouldn't be right. If Shepard—no, not Shepard—Goddess damn it all –

 _So what should I call you,_ Liara asked when Shepard groaned, pushing herself to her feet. _You say you're not Jane. What should I call you?_ Shepard's eyes had been cool. There had been something else there beneath the surface, familiar and defensive. _Just call me Shepard._ Her voice was filled with resentment.

The fighting is intense. Bullets fly from every direction. The Cerberus soldiers seem surprised to see Shepard. She fights clumsily. She fights like a vanguard. Jane had been _is_ an adept. She'd decided to pursue being a vanguard at some point later in her Alliance career. When Project Lazarus brought her back, she was implanted accordingly. That Shepard on the field is vicious but Liara has seen her fight more gracefully before. _Recently. Is she trying to prove a point?_

They finally whittle down Cerberus to more manageable numbers. Shepard takes the Eviscerator from her back and blows the head off the last remaining soldier. Garrus makes a face. They get to Bailey. Shepard stares at him uncertainly and then, more hesitantly, back at Liara and Garrus.

"Bailey," Garrus says, kneeling beside him. Shepard repeats the name under her breath. "What the hell is going on here?"

"Where are they?" Shepard adds quickly. "What areas have been breached?"

Liara tries to determine whether she's fishing for information, trying to mark their progress. "He's bleeding, 'Shepard', he needs medical aid."

"Why don't you throw some medi-gel at him," Shepard snaps. Liara and Garrus blink. Shepard reaches into a pouch and retrieves some. "There you go. Think you can patch up and talk at the same time?" Liara glares. "What? Your bedside manner's better?"

"If you two are done squabbling," Bailey rips the medi-gel packet open and begins applying it to his wounds. Blood pumps out of him and Shepard, frowning, covers his hand with hers to keep pressure on the wound. "I don't know what the hell is going on. Communication is down but last I heard they'd made it to the goddamned Wards. Not sure there's any part of the Citadel free of those bastards. Jesus fuck, how did we not see this coming, this is a large operation—"

"We'll stop it," Shepard says.

Liara frowns. She sounds convincing enough. Maybe she's missed her calling as an actress. "Where's the Council?" she asks. "We're afraid Cerberus is here to put an end to them—"

"Those motherfuckers," Bailey spits.

"Damned right, Sir," Garrus agrees.

"Just go. I'll be fine," Bailey looks at Shepard warily and then the rest of the group. "I may be old but I'm not dying yet."

They nod and move forward. Shepard taking point, Garrus following close behind. _Let's keep an eye on her,_ Liara said, _I'm not convinced she doesn't think she owes Cerberus favors for bringing her back._ Garrus' mandibles had flexed but he'd said nothing.

Most of the C-Sec channels are jammed, but Liara is able to route through the _Normandy_ to establish a tight-beam link. "Miranda, we've arrived. I have Shepard." Shepard glances back quickly. "Where are you?"

 _"You're here? With— I'm in Pallin's office. Everything's gone to hell."_

"I'm sorry to hear that." It's possible Miranda has been lying to her for all this time. If this talk of clones is true then… Goddess, what is she to think of it all? How is she to know she can trust Miranda? Trust this Shepard? None of it makes sense. The only one she can really trust is Garrus. "Stay put. Cerberus is everywhere. We'll work better together."

 _"Understood."_

Shepard drops back, walks beside her. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Trying to clean up your mess," Liara hisses. _You can't tell anyone about this. Please, promise me. People can't know what I am. If they know—everything could fall apart._ Shepard seemed angry and vulnerable then. Liara shook her head. _"No promises."_ Maybe she wanted to hurt her. Shepard moves ahead, wrapped in biotic tendrils, choking on anger. Liara narrows her eyes. Maybe she still wants to hurt her.

* * *

 _Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, fuck!_

Oriana ducks as Cerberus bursts through the doors into Purgatory. It isn't long before they start shooting. A few Alliance soldiers on shore leave try to do something, but they're gunned down quickly. They're here. Cerberus is here and she ran and they'll take her, maybe kill her. _I'm sorry, 'Randa, I really screwed this up._ She fights the urge to vomit, already blanketed in a cold sweat.

Samara swirls the drink in her glass, seemingly unconcerned, takes another sip, finishes it. "What are you doing!?" Oriana whispers vehemently. She takes Samara's arm and pulls. Samara only looks at her with dead eyes. "We have to get out of here! We need to find my sister!"

"I don't work for your sister. I don't work for you," she smiles, warm and unworried. Oriana goes cold. _I'm going to die. I'm going to die here and Samara's going to let me._ "I think I like this place," she stretches her arms over her head, languid and catlike before daringly getting to her feet. "I've missed Omega. This is more my scene. If you want to get out of here, all you have to do is walk out."

Samara leaves the table and Oriana follows, encased in a biotic barrier, terrified. "You," Samara says to an Alliance soldier, "show Cerberus the Alliance is something to be proud of." He nods at her, comes out of hiding, starts shooting at random. "And you," she says to a Cerberus soldier running up to them, "you've defected. Cerberus is no good. Fight them until you die."

The soldier turns from them and starts shooting. Surprised screams fill the air. Oriana can't hear anything else Samara says. The gunshots are deafening. All she sees is Samara meeting the eyes of the men and women that pass, and those men and women turning to fight. Sometimes the Alliance fights Cerberus, sometimes the Alliance shoots civilians, other times civilians shoot at the Alliance soldiers. It's chaos.

Oriana flings a man who comes in their direction. _I can do this. I can fight!_ But it doesn't seem she'll need to. They ignore her. Against all odds they ignore her. It's almost as if they don't know she's there. She sees without seeing until somehow she's made it out the door. She turns and looks back when she knows she shouldn't.

"Nicely done," Samara says, "Now get out of here, before I change my mind."

"What do you mean?"

But Samara's already forgotten her. She stands at the door, looking up at another asari, darker and older, her skin a violet color. "You know," Samara says, "I really love what I've done with this place."

The doors shut behind Oriana, locking the group inside. Bullets fire, one punching through the doors and whizzing past her. Oriana dives for cover, crawls back a few steps before getting to her feet. She runs and pulls up her omni-tool, sending an audio message. "'Randa! Cerberus is here! Where are you?!"

* * *

The nerves of before are stripped away. Her focus sharpens with every Cerberus soldier they take out. They race towards Pallin's office. Ah, she remembers the old bird. Hard-assed, not a fan of hers, wanted to do things the slow way, didn't see the merit in cutting through red tape, in doing what had to be done. Didn't like Spectres—maybe for good reason.

Shepard glances at his body, disemboweled—which she thought was a hell of a thing to do to a turian. Miranda gasps and Shepard sees a shadow flick, a swirl of a blade, Miranda's bloody face. Shepard hurtles forward before she knows what she's doing, cocks the shotgun and blasts. Whoever the ninja fucker is, he's fast. It should have taken his head off. Instead, a piece of the wall behind him crumbles.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asks, surprise evident on his face. He gives the blade another turn, lowering himself defensively into position. "Forget which side you're on?"

Fuck. Did they hear that? Blood runs down her nose. Fucking vanguards. _Who the fuck are you?_ She thinks she says the words but she doesn't— she fires the Eviscerator again, sees strands of his hair fall away before she clips the shotgun onto her back and swings hard. It connects, but just barely, he's like water; he ducks her second punch, grabs her arm and slams her into the wall. He growls her name and Shepard makes herself move, sees the faces of the group, watching tensely, weapons lifted but unable to take a shot—

She hurls him back with a biotic throw, sending him reeling into a wall. He's back on his feet what seems like too quickly. She surges forward again, the desk and bookshelves in the room cracking and splintering, groaning loudly, she gets her fingers around his collar but he slips away. "What are you doing!" He hisses again, "We have our orders…!"

Shepard half-spins, her elbow cracking into his face. He stumbles back. "I don't take orders from you, asshole."

He grunts, stands, blood running down his mouth and chin. "I know who you are," he mutters. She races to him, swings once and then again. He dodges both attempts before jumping, burying his foot in her stomach, his knee in her face. Even with the helmet, the blow lands hard. She goes dizzy. For moments she only breathes, tries to get up. The man stops, his eyes looking past her. She glances back—Garrus, Miranda, Liara, stand, guns trained on him.

With another growl he turns and leaves. Garrus extends a hand. Shepard stops, emotion welling through her. He yanks her to her feet. "That was an ass kicking, if I ever saw one," he offers.

"Thanks for the support. Who the fuck was that?" she asks.

Miranda wipes blood from her nose, shakes her head with disgust. "Kai Leng."

That name. Shepard forces the air in her lungs, tries not to scream. She remembers how that bastard left Hope. She was barely alive. It took so long for Hope to recuperate. She remembers the vow she made. She failed. She kicks at a nearby trashcan, sending it careening into a pillar. "Let's go," she doesn't wait for them. He's the bastard who hurt Hope. _Thought you didn't care what happened to her._

She doesn't. But she can't bury the hatred, the anger, the disappointment. It only now occurs to her that Hope is on the Citadel. Her breathing comes short. Where is she? Is she all right? Did she make it out?

"Shepard," she hears Liara moving after her, "are you all right?"

"What do you care?" She moves forward, determined.

* * *

Her nose and mouth throb from the hits she took from Kai Leng. If that bastard is in the picture things are bad. He's different than she remembers—has been upgraded. She shouldn't be surprised; at this point it seems everything is designed to rattle her.

What the hell was that between Shepard and Kai Leng? Why attack him if she's working with Cerberus? Was it all an act? For Garrus, for Liara? If so, it was a hell of a show. Why not pretend to go after him, let him get away? It'd be one thing if Liara had confronted her but… no. Liara wouldn't. She ought to be smarter than that. She can hope that Shepard has seen the error of her ways but doesn't buy it.

Still, if not for her timely arrival, who knows what Leng might have done to her? She has no time to think on it now. Oriana is in trouble and the Citadel is crawling with Cerberus. If they get her… _You won't let that happen._ She tears through the Citadel. It isn't how she'd prefer to move but she has no time to be cautious. Oriana is out there.

She uses biotic slams to take out some of the agents and merely shoots the others when she's feeling depleted, which is happening far faster than she anticipated. _You're getting soft._ No. The Suicide Mission was another creature. They were heavily armed, prepared and had every necessity accounted for. This has been over a year on the run, going off fumes. It had to catch up eventually. But why now?

She checks the thermal clip on the pistol and grits her jaw. She's running low and she hasn't seen anything that she might pick up. There's an Atlas up ahead, a group of nemeses and phantoms. Miranda swears internally and drops low, carefully taking the stairs up to the second landing. Oriana is that way but there's no chance of getting past that group on her own.

She moves along the walls, keeping to the shadows, her footsteps light. She makes it. Air floods into her lungs and she sees Oriana up ahead. She's pressed to the wall, looking around the corner in terror. Miranda doesn't run, no matter how desperately she wants to, how terrified she is something will happen to her sister in the ten seconds it takes to get to her. "There you are," she says once she reaches her. Oriana squelches whatever sound she's going to make, throws her arms around her instead. "You scared me half to death."

"You too," Oriana says quietly, "I'm so sorry I ran off—I guess that was pretty dumb— Oh my God," she looks at her face, "what happened to you?"

"Nothing—"

She stops, hears a whisper, turns. Oriana whimpers. Phantoms. Dragoons. Nemeses. Seven in all. The nemeses have their sights trained on them. Miranda feels a delicate heat in the middle of her forehead and glances at Oriana to see a beam centered on her forehead as well. Her mouth goes dry.

"Targets identified," one of the dragoons says. "Kill target Miranda. Apprehend target Oriana."

"No!" Oriana tries to step forward. Miranda stretches a hand out to prevent her. "I'll go with you, just let her go—"

"Damn it, Ori…!" Miranda shoves her back. Not this. Not after so long, not after so much suffering. She can't let Cerberus win, her father win. She can't let them take Ori… turn her into… She can't let it happen. "I won't let you have her. All my life I've worked for this. To keep her safe," her voice begins to splinter. "I'll die first. I'll die before I let you have her." Oriana's hand is tight on her shoulder, painful.

"That can be arranged." A woman's voice. She isn't sure who. One of the phantoms. Snide.

The faceless group stares at them, masked and unfeeling. Two of the phantoms are ready to spring into action, another stands straight, blade at her side. "You are family." The voice is flat, maybe curious. "I see."

"Doesn't matter," a dragoon says.

The next moment his head is on the ground. The group of soldiers stare at it, get bathed in blood as the body spins, spraying blood before it falls. A shot rings out. Miranda takes a terrified look behind her. Oriana is stunned, horrified but alive.

The phantom that spoke half-spins, buries its blade into another's stomach. Her head shifts in their direction. "Go." Miranda glances up, sees a headless nemesis body hanging over the railing below, the other one has its sights trained on a different dragoon. There are screams.

Miranda doesn't question, doesn't linger. She takes Oriana's hand and runs.

* * *

Cerberus is far stronger than she anticipated. Unchecked, their power has grown to intimidating proportions. Miranda ran off before Liara could ask questions and the fighting hasn't stopped for even a moment. Shepard charges ahead, more recklessly than she should, enraged by Kai Leng's escape. Who is he to her? An enemy or co-conspirator?

She almost feels sorry for the soldiers who get in Shepard's way. She may be charging off on her own but she is clinical and precise in her execution. Her determination and focus are admirable. Liara wonders how difficult it would be to plant a bullet in the back of her head. The price would be cheap given how much she could potentially save.

How much of Shepard's story is true…? Any of it…? She's melded with the woman before, knows her history. Shouldn't she _know?_ Why can't she be sure? She fought viciously with Kai Leng. Perhaps it was all a show. _It was. Don't believe her._ But some part of her must. If not, she'd have killed Shepard already. A simple mind meld would prove everything—but the thought of it is unbearable.

Liara lags behind. She blinks, tries to ignore the thoughts. She can't afford to be anything but focused now. Up ahead Garrus glances questioningly back at her. Shepard flows ahead, electrifying the air around her, snatching the blade from a phantom's hand and slicing her neck open with it before dispassionately throwing her aside. Liara fights the chill she gets. She's cold. _She's the Butcher of Torfan. She sacrificed a squad, killed surrendering batarians. What do you expect?_

It's different to have heard about it, read about it, than to see it happen before her eyes.

"Spirits, they're fast!" Garrus shouts as two phantoms drop to either side of him. He blocks the blade of a phantom with his Krysae sniper rifle and ends up holding two pieces in hand. A forceful kick forward and one tumbles back. The other lunges forward. Liara stares as Garrus tries to weave around the one in front of him. Everything moves in slow motion as the blade inches forward.

A moment later it splits apart. Liara sees the smoke of the Eviscerator shotgun and the snapped blade slam into Shepard's ribcage. Garrus shouts. Liara nearly does before a searing pain tears through her arm. Liara slings a singularity field back while Garrus shoots down the offending nemesis with the Mattock-98. Hot blood pours down her arm. Shepard takes a few hits from the phantom's hand palm cannon before she snatches the 'useless' broken blade from the phantom. "No, no," the phantom says, "wait!" Shepard slams the fractured sword, edge first into the woman's skull. She twitches on the floor.

"That looks like it hurt," Garrus says. He prods her with his foot and she stops. "Thanks for the save, Shepard. I hope Cerberus doesn't have a lot of these. You know how it goes with turians and rolling."

"So I've heard." Shepard wraps her gloved hand around the blade buried in her side. Liara catches up to them. Garrus dumps the Krysae with a sigh. Shepard looks at her. Her arm sleeve is soaked in blue blood. "You all right? You're bleeding," she takes her arm. Liara takes it back and causes a new wave of pain to move through it. There's a flash in Shepard's eyes through the visor. Maybe hurt. "Put some damned medi-gel on it," she tells her shortly.

Garrus looks between the two of them. "That didn't puncture a lung, did it," he nods to Shepard. She shakes her head and pulls it out, throwing it to the side. "That assassin—I think I see him up ahead."

Shepard moves ahead without another word. Liara begins to follow. Garrus takes her arm. "Whatever's going on with you two, drop it—at least out here."

Liara scowls. She wants to fight with him. Of all times for him to take Shepard's side. Wasn't he the one saying for months that she couldn't be trusted? "Let's go," she says, "who knows what she'll do if we don't keep up with her."

Garrus narrows his eyes, but checks the Mattock and moves to follow after her. Kai Leng has snuck into an elevator and Shepard is already prying another one open to go after him. Wonderful. She's beginning to hate elevators.

* * *

A hail of gunfire separated them, left her on her own. She went crawling under a desk, hands over her ears. Who knows where Kaidan's gone off to now? _Go save the Council!_ _I'll just be here! Hiding!_ Maya Brooks told him. Another lie. They come so easily she doesn't have to think of them. They don't demand any creativity. She wonders if she can stop herself. She wonders if she's capable of the truth. Rasa closes her eyes, leans into the steel doors, her fingers digging into her shoulder, fingertips skirting over the edge of the bullet.

Her face is hot. No medi-gel and she can't get it out. Perfect. She breathes hard for some moments and stoops to pick up the only weapon in sight. A Cerberus Harrier from a fallen soldier. It's heavy but powerful. It's also an assault rifle and her shoulder feels like burning jello. _Say goodbye to that shoulder. This might be the wound that finishes what Grace started._

Her eyes sting briefly. Shitty shoulder or no, there's still an attack to stop. Before they got separated, Kaidan said he heard reports that Shepard is here. The Harrier fires blindly. Maya Brooks is an idiot. If she… say… accidentally takes off Shepard's head—she can't be faulted. She'll be doing the world a favor and vindicating Grace. Miranda has other plans for Shepard but Rasa never agreed. A control chip isn't enough insurance. Killing her is the only way to be sure.

After Shepard's dead, she may be able to sleep. With a small cry of pain she pushes herself off the door. Blood runs down her arm. The damned Harrier is too heavy. If only she'd had the Phalanx, but it wouldn't have been right, approaching the boy scout with a beauty like that on her. If Kaidan's half the Spectre Shepard was, he'll get to the Council. Save them.

When did everything change? When did she start caring about whether the Council was saved? She blames Grace. Stupid, reckless, emotional. Rasa nearly smiles remembering the woman's confession of love. _You don't know what love is._ She clears her throat. There's a noise ahead and she creeps forward, slinking behind a jewelry store counter.

Two figures move quietly ahead, despite the broken glass and debris scattered everywhere. A particularly sharp pain shoots up her shoulder and down her arm and she closes her eyes, fighting the vertigo threatening to overcome her. She can't quite bite down the gasp that pushes past her lips, the excruciating pain nearly blinding. They must have been using incendiary ammo. It's been a while since she's felt it.

She's remembering the last time when a hand snakes behind the counter, yanks her to her feet, throws her against the wall. Rasa crumbles. Why is she so bloody dizzy? She can't remember the last time she ate. Maybe she's lost a lot of blood. Maybe she's dying. She looks blearily at the two in front of her. One is blonde and dressed in black. The other wears white, black and gold. Her eyes are brown. No, green. Both. Her face is a patchwork of scars. Rasa grits her teeth, fumbles for the Harrier.

A palm-cannoned hand knocks it away. The woman flips the blade in her hand. It's her. Not her. One of the other ones. Pieces. Rasa crawls and the woman follows. "Three." It's that actress. What's her name? Anna something or another. There were rumors she'd be in the next Blasto movie. Rasa can't decide whether that or Cerberus is more humiliating. Oh well. This looks like end of the road. "She doesn't matter."

'Three' picks Rasa up, flips her onto her back, looks into her eyes. Rasa's elated, gutted, to see the resemblance. "All I wanted was a purpose. A family. Something to stand for," 'Three' tells her unfeelingly. _I wanted those things, too._ 'Three's eyes flit over her face. "How's _Grace_?" And with that, some venom climbs into her voice. Rasa lashes out, her hand weakly slapping 'Three's' face, scratching it, drawing blood.

'Three' looks at her. The blonde comes over as Rasa's reaching for the Harrier. She kicks it out of the way. "If you're going to kill me, get to it," Rasa says. Three flips the blade in her hand, straddling her. Rasa's chest burns. So much work. All for nothing. So much she wanted to make right and she wasted all of it. She accomplished nothing. So many opportunities given to her, all of them squandered.

"Do you miss her?" Three asks.

"Who?"

"Your partner." She presses the blade to Rasa's abdomen. The material of her uniform gives way. She feels the cold blade on her skin. "The perfect one," she breathes the last.

"Three, we don't have time for this," the blonde snaps.

"Do you?" Three asks again.

"Yes," Rasa says through gritted teeth. The woman's face swims before her eyes. Rasa's happy she can't make it out anymore. Wishes she'd never recognized it to begin with. She curses her weakness, the stupid, illogical emotion. If only she were crying for her own impending demise. That would make more sense. That would be less pathetic.

"Okay." Three says. She stands and leaves, the blonde on her tail. Through a film of water she sees them slip into their helmets. She lunges, uselessly, for the Harrier. She gets to her feet, alive and unsure, stumbles out into the hallway.

Kaidan appears around a corner, waves her toward him. "Brooks! Come on!"

* * *

It's just like the old days. Shooting everything in sight, not bothering to take names. Cerberus is a pain in the ass. He can't say it feels good to see them come into the one place in the galaxy that has been a safe haven and tear it apart—but it sure does feel good to be kicking ass with Shepard again.

Can't explain it. In some ways he doesn't want to. It feels good. Right. And still… he doesn't want to get _too_ comfortable. Shepard is a screw-up. Has been. Was? Lost half the damned crew on the Suicide Mission, lost Tali… Spirits. He imagines there will be a time when that stops hurting. It can't come soon enough. It'll come too soon. Not to mention Shepard pointed a damned gun at him, told him to get off the ship.

She acts like none of it ever happened. In some ways, he wants to forget too but he can't afford to. Can't risk it. She wanted him to stay on the ship, told him she needed him. Shepard's always been better at threats than placations, but he can't deny she's drawing him in. Truth is, he's missed this, missed her, missed their back and forth, their digs.

She's fighting Cerberus as if every ounce of her being depends on it. He hasn't seen one instance of hesitation, when she might have considered mercy. Something's going on with her and Liara. He can't put his finger on it. Not that things have been great between the two for a while, but this is different. There's something new and heavy between them that he can't get a fix on.

Now they're fighting on elevators. Exciting at first but he's quickly over it. They drop through an elevator hatch and move out into the open, Shepard rushing to the front. The councilors are in sight, along with Kaidan and a woman in an Alliance uniform that Garrus doesn't recognize. She took a bullet, bleeds from a shoulder. Shepard sees her, stops abruptly in her tracks before looking away. She scans the area, looking, no doubt, for the assassin. A scorched, ruined shuttle smokes nearby.

Udina looks at Shepard fearfully, maybe hatefully. The Alliance officer slinks down, cowering behind the glass, looking at Shepard surreptitiously. Everyone that meets her has a habit of doing that.

"Shepard," Kaidan glances at the Alliance officer, who shakes her head, keeping it down fearfully. 'What are you doing here?" He removes the Predator from its holster and points it at her. Shepard freezes before snapping the Carnifex out from her side. "Man." He looks at her sadly. "I really didn't want to believe it."

"I don't know what you're talking about." She shakes her head. "I'm not here to fight, Kaidan. I've got an assassin to kill. He hasn't arrived. Which is too bad for me, but lucky for the rest of you. Garrus, that door sealed behind us?"

He punches it locked. "Affirmative, Shepard."

Kaidan moves forward, pistol still trained on Shepard. "I know why you're here. I know you planned all of this…!" Garrus flinches, even if Liara doesn't move, keeps her Shuriken lowered. "They brought you back. You thought you owed them favors… Man," his voice shakes, "I really thought you were better than all of this. I wanted to believe in you."

"It isn't true, Kaidan," she says firmly. "I don't know what pile of shit Udina's been filling your head with, but I don't blame him for wanting to get in your good graces." She smiles thinly. "I have a different theory. I'm betting Udina's the one working with Cerberus—"

"What?" Udina sputters. "This is preposterous!" He glances at the Alliance officer, Kaidan, the other councilors. "Shepard has openly admitted to working with Cerberus! Chances are she still is!" He goes over to the console. "I'm opening the door. We're fish in a barrel out here—"

"That expression again," Garrus lifts the Mattock and is left unsure of who to point it at. He starts with Udina and lets it wander over to Kaidan. "Shepard has an awful temper. You'd probably better do as she says."

"Open the door!" Kaidan orders Udina. The councilor smirks. "Lower the gun, Shepard. I wanted to trust you. I've seen enough to know I can't." Garrus hears Shepard's breathing, unsteady through the helmet. "Come on. I don't want to have to put you down."

"Think you can?"

"Yeah. If I have to."

The door mechanism is unlocking behind them. "Damn it, Kaidan, there's a swarm of Cerberus soldiers and an assassin right behind that door," Shepard growls. She steps forward. Kaidan starts to pull the trigger. Shepard's finger isn't on the trigger. She has to know. She's Shepard. She has to know. Garrus shoots.

It's so quiet outside. The bullet is a click. The air is crisp and cool. Kaidan looks at him, at them, a hand over his heart as he slumps down.

"Kaidan!" Liara shouts, goes to him. Shepard is still. Garrus is still. He feels the weight of the assault rifle like never before. His mandibles flex slowly. The air is suffocating.

The Alliance woman watches the scene. Liara places a hand over Kaidan's chest but the blood keeps coming. He's pale and wheezing. Garrus figures he has seconds. He shot him. Why'd he shoot him…? Because he said what Garrus had always suspected…? Because he was going to destroy their one shot at winning this war? He feels sick.

Tevos and Sparatus are petrified. Udina is unmoved, continuing to work on the console. Tevos shakes her head. "Don't open the door." Udina reaches behind his back, pulls out a gun, throws Tevos to the ground.

Garrus is still frozen. Liara is preoccupied. Shepard takes one step forward, sinks a bullet between Udina's eyes. Tevos screams. Udina managed to unlock the mechanism. The doors open behind them. No one's there, until moments later when Bailey and his men arrive.

The Council forgotten, Shepard sinks next to Kaidan, taps his face gently. "Hey, Kaidan. Come on. You can survive this." He blinks slowly, his breathing raspy. He pushes her away weakly. Moments later he's still.

Shepard takes the helmet off, flings it. It bounces around the small balcony before coming to rest in front of the Alliance woman. Shepard's sweaty and pale, shaking. She has her hands over her eyes, as if wanting to shut the world away. Liara doesn't look at her. The Council looks frightfully behind the door. Garrus can't manage to see anything. The Alliance woman touches the helmet as if it were fire.

* * *

The last few days on the Citadel have gone by in a blur.

Shepard has spent nights and days searching for any security weaknesses, talking to Bailey and the Council, accounting for the damage done to the space station. The attack has left too many dead. The evidence is on the bloodstained steps and walls, shattered glass, burned rooms, bullet-riddled corpses that haven't been cleaned up yet.

The Council reinstates her into the Spectres, their previous doubts about her alleviated. Her palm print doesn't perfectly match their records. She tells them not all her parts are original. They accept the explanation and update their records. It's anticlimactic at best. Jane Shepard is truly dead and gone. She's taken her place. She's a Spectre. She doesn't feel good or worthy of any of it. Nobody's there to witness the induction ceremony.

She meanders through the Citadel, observing the Keepers. How do they know what to do? Where do they come from? She tries to remember the salarian who had her scan them. Chorban. She eventually grew bored with it, decided it wasn't worth her time and moved on, but now she's curious again. They work so diligently, so purposefully, in perfect synchronicity. Who or what guides them? Why doesn't anybody question it?

She suspects she's trying to get her mind off things. Kai Leng got away. Hope is around somewhere, pretending to be an Alliance officer. Kaidan is dead. Liara is furious with her. Garrus is…

She sighs. The apartment she rented is too big for one and its vastness makes her feel lonely. She heats up a cup of noodles in the microwave. She's never been a big cook and her mother didn't exactly teach her. _You don't have a mother._ She bites her tongue, listening to the incessant, annoying beeping of the microwave, going to the window to stare out. The sun has just set and the stars and moon are crawling into the faux-sky. Fourteen hours of day, six hours of night. She prefers the night to the cheerful blue expanse and sunlight.

There's a delicate knock on the door. She hesitates. She's not used to visitors. She picks up the Carnifex from the kitchen counter and goes to the door. Oriana stands there, looking older than before, sharper. Her eyes settle on Shepard's face, meets her eyes until Shepard looks away. What the hell is she doing here? "Ori—… ana," she shakes her head, "uh— guess Miranda found you."

Oriana's eyes are bright, glistening. "May I come in, Commander?"

"Oh. Yeah, okay." She steps aside and Oriana wanders in. Shepard frowns. She shouldn't be here, nor is she sure how much Miranda would like it if she were there. Is she still with Hope? What the hell was Hope doing with the Council and Kaidan? She doesn't want to think about it. Another Cerberus plot, maybe? She can't be sure. She sets the pistol back on the counter and opens the fridge. "I've got some ramen heating up if you're game?"

"I'll pass. Getting real tired of ramen, you know?"

"Yeah, I bet." She stares at the fridge, swallows the lump in her throat. "How's Miranda?"

"Okay. Told me how you showed up and saved the day. Thanks, by the way. I heard about the Spectre thing. Congrats." Shepard nods absently. She grabs Oriana a beer, uncapping it and setting it in front of her. Oriana bows her head, smiles. "Thanks."

"Sure." She retrieves the cup of noodles from the microwave, slowly pulling the cap back and setting the noodles on the counter. Oriana stands opposite, looking around the apartment, looking at her. Shepard remembers grabbing her on Thessia. She has the same face but looks like a different person. Her eyes are sure and determined; despite the exhaustion there's a spark of mischief in them.

"I heard about what happened. Um, with that Kaidan guy and… Kai Leng?" She asks tentatively. Shepard frowns. "He was your friend, right? The first guy?" Shepard bites her tongue, clears her throat. "You want to talk about it?"

"With you?" her derisive laugh isn't quite. She has a bite of ramen, much too hot, surprisingly spicy. "I'm okay. But thanks, kid."

"This place is huge," she looks around. "You wouldn't believe the little closets 'Randa and I have been sleeping in. You throw Rasa in there and it's a tight squeeze. Not the sexy kind—I mean—" she wrinkles her nose, "actually, I don't know what I mean." She laughs softly. Shepard smiles wryly. "Hey. I've really missed you, Grace." Shepard stops, the ramen half way up to her mouth. That name… it makes her… It's hard to breathe— Oriana looks at her. "Look me in the eyes and tell me I'm wrong—"

Shepard reaches across, takes her arms. Tries to lie—can't, somehow. This is the girl who took her life, gave her life, exposed her for what she was, knew that she herself was the same. Without Oriana would she have started her rampage? Would she have ever gotten back onto the _Normandy_ , been with Garrus again, kissed Liara again— She shakes her head, can hardly speak, "Don't call me that—you can't—Ori, you can't—"

A flush of color crawls up her cheeks, a smile unlike she's ever seen on Miranda. "I won't. I promise."

Shepard draws a breath. She's holding on too tightly. She lets go. Oriana rubs her arms faintly. Shepard finds napkins to clean up the mess on the counter. Oriana watches her.

"You have to tell Rasa," Oriana says. Shepard tries to swallow, can't. "Why didn't you tell her? Me and 'Randa, I get that—but Rasa—"

"It's not your business—"

"But it is. Do you know how long I've had to deal with her moping after you? First after you ran off to Earth and since she's thought you were dead? It's killing her, Grace." Shepard stops cleaning, balls up the napkins and dumps them and the noodles into the trash. She runs the water hot and washes her hands. Oriana moves to stand beside her. "Hey. Look at me." Shepard shuts the water off. Looks at her. Oriana smiles faintly. "I know you guys fought. Maybe you didn't like her plan but it was the right plan, right? That other Shepard was working with Cerberus. And now you're here and you're doing all right. What would have happened if she hadn't woken you? Maybe the Council and everyone on the Citadel would be dead."

"Hope, Rasa, whatever her name is, only cares about one thing: getting what she wants. I was only ever a means to an end for her. I'm a lone wolf. She's a lone wolf."

Oriana wilts gently. "You idiot. Isn't it obvious that she's in love with you?" Shepard squares her jaw, the air burning in her lungs. Is she…? It's what she's always wanted. _That was before. And it isn't possible. She said it wasn't possible. For you. For her._ She remembers all those times she yelled at Hope, Rasa, whoever, for calling her an "it," for not treating her like a person. Later, Rasa told her that she was special, that she had a greater purpose, that she was Jane Shepard. Grace was only ever meant to be temporary.

"She's been acting like a zombie since you 'died'," Oriana air quotes, going on. "She's reckless and impulsive—like she's got a death wish or something. Come on. Please talk to her. Please tell her. It's the right thing to do."

Why should she? The last thing she needs is to engage with her. It's been easier to adopt this life without her presence, her interference. Seeing her again could suck her back in. It would be confusing as hell. And still, during the coup, Hope, Rasa, whoever, was there. Why? She was injured, bleeding. Shepard hates that she _wants_ to see her, _wants_ to talk to her, _needs_ to know she's okay, no matter how confusing, disappointing, infuriating, it's likely to be. She could deny the request. She could detox, wean herself off Hope/Rasa/whoever—get her out of her system. But won't she always be addicted, in some way, unless she abstains?

 _Don't be stupid. You have a new life. Your old life. You're not Grace. You're Jane. It will be all right. It will be just fine._ "Fine," Shepard says, "I'll think about it."


	29. Metamorphosis

The entrance hallway stretches behind her. The Spectre office is cold and metallic. Shepard figured she should check it out at least once before heading back to the _Normandy_. She looks around. To the right, a door and windows reveal an adjoining shooting range. To the left, a bank of monitors plasters the wall, clustered around some terminals and a holo-pad.

How many Spectres have come through here? How many are out roaming the galaxy right now? It occurs to her that she doesn't know any. Her namesake was one. Kaidan also held the title, all too briefly. A queasy feeling settles in her stomach as she approaches the monitors. She decides to check them quickly and leave.

A step, and then she stops. There's someone else here. She isn't sure how she knows. A sound, a smell, a vibration, some clue that registers subconsciously—it doesn't matter. She just _knows_. She turns, hand jerking to the Carnifex at her side, and scans the room. There's nothing—only metal and glass, the floor and walls of the room. False alarm.

No. Wait. _There._ A spot where light seems to bend oddly. A blurred outline in the shape of a person, just two or three meters away. An enemy? She can't be sure, but it would reflect poorly on her to shoot a fellow Spectre so soon into her tenure. "I know you're there," she warns, hand on the butt of her weapon. "Show yourself."

There's movement, and then a form materializes before her. A woman, white and black bodysuit, gold stripes down the arms, a mask with red slits. Cerberus. One of those "phantom" bitches. Why are they all female? She killed a few of them during the coup, but not before one managed to tag her pretty good. They're dangerous, nimble, stabby little cunts with palm cannons that can take your shields down in seconds. It holds a sword at its side and regards her wordlessly.

This is fucked up. It's been days since the coup attempt. Why is this thing still here? What the hell does it want? "You get lost? Buddies leave you behind?"

Its only response is to tip its head slightly to one side. Shepard stares back. She can't see its eyes, only the slits of its mask. Beats pass. Fuck this. She pulls the Carnifex halfway from the holster.

"You are Grace," it states flatly. Not a question.

Great. First Oriana, now this thing. Fine. It'll be dead soon anyway. She shrugs. "You got me. Okay if I shoot you now?"

The question doesn't seem to register. "You were X8. Then Grace. Now Shepard. Did you not find your previous names sufficient?"

Well. This one's inquisitive. And oddly personal. Something about its voice seems familiar. She plays along. "I never went by X8. I only found out about that later. Kinda glad. It's a shit name."

It pauses, considering. "So you did not always know?"

"Know what?" She furrows her brow. _Oh_. "What I am?"

"Yes."

She shrugs. "I know what I am. Now why the fuck are you here?"

"I came to find out."

"Find out what?"

"If you are perfect."

The first swing nearly takes her head. Shepard ducks, whirls, draws the Carnifex. Strands of hair fall to the floor. She gets off one errant shot before the gun is kicked out of her hand. It skitters across the floor.

The phantom presses forward, blade flashing, conducting a vicious symphony. Shepard retreats before the onslaught, all too aware that she has very little room to work with. As the terminals loom behind her, she feints to the left, then rotates her hips as the phantom thrusts its blade into empty air, missing her midsection by millimeters. She delivers a lateral kick to the phantom's solar plexus and is rewarded with a soft grunt as it staggers back a step. Its blade hand drops just a little. It's enough. Shepard squares her stance and follows with a biotic charge. Somehow, she's met with an elbow to the face. The collision knocks the phantom back a few more feet, but it quickly recovers, crouching into a ready position. Shepard regards it, ears ringing as she wipes fresh blood from her mouth. Damn. She probably got the worse end of that. This one is even tougher than the others she's fought. "I have a question. Did you sign up for this? Or did they take you?"

"Neither. I was... born to it."

Born to it? That voice. It's flat, devoid of emotion, but she can't shake the nagging sense of familiarity. Frustrating. She stretches out an open hand, coiling her shoulder muscles, _pulling_. The Carnifex stirs on the floor and leaps toward her hand.

The phantom springs forward, thrusting its sword into the gun's trajectory, neatly spearing it through the gap in the handle.

Shepard raises an eyebrow as the captured gun slides down the phantom's blade. "Fuck. That was pretty impressive," she admits. "Now," she says, pressing the tip of a fresh omni-blade to the phantom's throat. "Why don't you cut the shit and tell me who you are?"

It glances down, then drops its blade to the floor in resignation. "I am the fate you escaped. I am the spare parts." It holds its chin up. "But I am no longer property."

What? Property? _Spare parts?_

Oh fuck.

No. _No_. Dread envelops her. Shame suffocates her. All this time, she's just blithely ignored the fact that she wasn't the only one. That there was another one out there, in Cerberus hands. In the lab that she destroyed, her birthplace – the place where she murdered X20 – there was a datapad. She remembers. _X3 has been activated after a series of transplants from..._ And then it listed a half dozen other subjects. Her sisters. Jesus. Oh Jesus fuck.

She lowers her omni-blade. When she speaks again, her voice is barely more than a whisper. "Show me," she says.

X3 takes a step back, reaches up, pulls the helmet off. Brown hair tumbles down, longer and straighter than her own. Her face is marked with reddish lines, scars that will never quite fade. One eye is green, the other brown. Shepard looks at her. Really looks at her. She looks the same, but different.

X3 watches her impassively, as if accustomed to being examined. Shepard looks her in the eye. "You came to kill me?"

"Yes." A beat. She shakes her head slightly. "No."

"Explain."

X3 glances down, takes a deep breath. "I did everything Cerberus asked, but I was never good enough. They only wanted you. I needed to understand why."

Shepard shakes her head with a wry smile. "That explanation is batshit crazy. But I get it. I know exactly where that impulse comes from. Or, rather, who."

"You are referring to Jane Shepard? The first of us?"

She nods, glances away. "Yeah. Even in the end, as twisted up as she was, she needed to prove she was the best."

"So she is dead now? You defeated her?"

"I don't know if 'defeated' is the right word, but yeah, she's dead. It's just you and me now." She takes a breath. "The things she was doing... She wasn't herself."

X3 nods. "She was indoctrinated."

Shepard looks at her sharply. "You understand about that?"

"Yes. I have seen it. I refused the upgrades, but I do not believe I would have been allowed to refuse for much longer. It is why we... I left."

"Smart. So you gave them the slip during the coup attempt?"

"Yes. I will not fight for Cerberus any longer. They talk about family and service to humanity. That is a lie. Cerberus serves only itself."

Shepard nods. "So what's your plan? What will you do next?"

A frown. "I am not sure. I know how to hide, but I do not wish to. I wish to fight. Against Cerberus. Against the Reapers."

Shepard rubs her chin. "I think I may have something for you."

"I am listening."

"Good. Here it is. There's been some chatter on the military back channels recently. The Alliance is starting something up that I think could do some real good. They've had all their resources tied up fighting the war in the trenches, but the brass knows that's not where we're going to win this thing. It's pretty unofficial right now, but N7 is taking in aliens, criminals, mercs, pretty much anybody with special skills, for a series of strategic operations across the galactic theater. I think you'd be perfect for it."

X3 considers. "I agree." She hesitates, looking away. "But I am not alone. There is another with me. She is nearby."

Shepard shrugs. "Can she fight?

"Yes. She is an excellent marksman."

"She's of the same mind as you? Regarding Cerberus?"

"Yes."

"Then bring her. There's always a need for shooters. Look, it will be dangerous as hell. You'll be taking orders, but you'll be doing good. I think you'll be able to sleep better at night."

"Then I accept."

"Great," Shepard smiles, folds her arms. "So, you got a name?"

She looks at her quizzically. "X3."

"You're shitting me. That stuck?"

"I am not 'shitting' you. Annalise calls me Three."

Shepard shakes her head. "That's a little better, but this won't do." She activates her omni-tool. "I have something for you. Let's link up."

X3 activates her own omni-tool and completes the link. "What is it?"

"Old baggage," she says, frowning slightly as she types a series of commands into the haptic interface. "A new beginning for you." She waves the omni-tool. "There." She extends a hand. "Nice to meet you, Grace Morgan."

* * *

"You lied to me."

The door to Liara's office slides shut. Miranda Lawson gazes around the room, at the monitor feeds, Glyph, finally settling on Liara. Her eyes reveal nothing. If there is apology or regret for any of her actions, she doesn't show it. Liara asked Miranda to meet her after the coup. Miranda took her sweet time in responding. Liara anticipated the woman wouldn't arrive and here she has without announcing she would be coming. Who let her on the ship? Shepard? 'Shepard'.

"More accusations," Miranda says.

Liara grits her teeth. When Shepard died there was anger and grief, a devastating loneliness. She buried her feelings. It seems in the past few years all she does is bury her feelings. It's like archaeology in reverse. Recently she's had difficulty containing her anger. She attacked Shepard or whatever – whoever she may be in her cabin. She doesn't want to attack Miranda, even if she wants to yell and tell her she failed. "First you deleted all Cerberus activity from my Shadow Broker network."

"The Shadow Broker network you'd stolen, we helped you get and you'd had for seconds? I wouldn't really say it was yours." There's a beat. "I thought we'd moved past this."

"I thought so too." Liara watches her. Even now, Miranda seems uninterested in the discussion, as if she's only deigned to appear. The woman is reserved and aloof. Her expression, when not arrogant, borders on bored. "You never mentioned the clones." That gets Miranda's attention. Doubt fills Liara again, hope, despair. Liara envies Miranda's evenness, is afraid of thick emotion. 'Shepard' mentioned the clones. Liara didn't want to believe it. How could she? "Deny it."

Miranda takes a step back, crossing her arms gently. "That's… sensitive information. How did you find it?"

"Have you forgotten that I'm the Shadow Broker?" Her head spins. She isn't sure if she's covering for Shepard or not. Miranda hasn't denied it. Which can only mean it's true. _Or she could be messing with you._ Another possibility, but unlikely: Miranda doesn't have a sense of humor. She wouldn't know a prank if it beat her over the head. "How long have you known?"

"Long enough."

Liara collects her breath, tries to gather her thoughts. Liara scavenged the universe in a path of vengeance, leaving a trail of bodies in her wake. She hardened herself, delivered Shepard to the enemy she loathed for the chance to bring her back. It was a mistake. Was it a mistake? _It was._ "You made clones," she hardly recognizes her voice, "with what I brought you of Shepard."

"Out of her genetic material, yes. I didn't oversee the project," she shrugs delicately, as if the matter were entirely out of her hands and she isn't sure why it's being debated. "There were twelve of them, meant to be spare parts in case _your_ Shepard needed them."

She blinks rapidly. Clears her throat. The room is swimming. "She wasn't my Shepard. You didn't bring her back. It's clear you didn't bring her back. I know you didn't bring her back. You brought back a monster. A monster conspiring with Cerberus," she can't get enough air into her lungs. "I gave you everything and you failed."

Miranda is stiff, unmoving, guilt flickering in her eyes. "I'm not going to get into a pissing contest with you and tell you what has worked. Clearly you've made up your mind. There's another matter. What of Shepard? She stopped the coup. Somehow." Shakes her head gently. "Reminded me of someone else I used to know. What should we do with her?"

"That's my concern now. You've shown me you're not capable, you're not trustworthy. Leave. Now."

"So much for our working relationship." Miranda scoffs. "I thought—" she licks her lips, then gives another shake of her head. "I'm sorry she didn't come back the way that you wanted. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not perfect and I do make mistakes. I did everything I could to steer her in the right direction." She takes a breath. "The reason I wasn't here immediately after you made contact was because I was tracking something down. A control chip. I'd wanted to implant Shepard with it when I was first resuscitating her to avoid these kinds of… complications. The Illusive Man didn't agree and here we are."

A shiver trails down her spine. A control chip. To make her someone else. Someone who obeys. Is it right? Is it better than a bullet in the brain? And if Liara allowed it, made herself an accomplice in the action, would she be implanting the wrong woman? Would she be enslaving an innocent? _An imposter._ "This… control chip. How exactly are you planning on getting it into her?"

"I rebuilt Shepard from ground beef. I think I'm qualified." She seems to stop herself from rolling her eyes. "I was hoping you'd help. Shepard has a soft spot for you. Use it."

Liara's nostrils flare slightly. Love as a weapon. "Those clones you made. Did any survive?"

Miranda smiles grimly. "None that matter." She pauses, her eyes clouding over, seeming to consider. "There was one. Real idealist type. Smart. Brutal. Helped me get Ori back. Stopped Cerberus at Grissom. But Shepard killed her on Tuchanka." Liara stops breathing. Goes numb. Goddess. Is it true? It sounds crazy. Could it be true…? It might be true. Goddess. She shakes. Goes cold. _It's true._ "We only have one left. One that can do this. I have the control chip. Do I have your cooperation?"

Liara goes to the door, unable to think. "I can't—I'm sorry. I need to think. Go. Just go."

Miranda scowls. "Have it your way. As arrogant as ever, I see."

Miranda exits the office. A rush of cold air sweeps into the room. Liara blinks, the sounds seeming to be too far away, soldiers moving about as if in a blur. Shepard is in the med-bay, talking to Dr. Michel. They turn, catching each other's eyes at the same time. Liara tries to fight the numbness. It's not her. It's not Shepard. Who the hell is she? What the hell is she? What the hell is it? Goddess. This is all…

She turns away, locking the door behind her, wanting to be left to her solitude.

* * *

Samantha is convinced she'll either pee herself or keel over from a heart attack. Miranda is onboard. Oh, she remembers her quite vividly from the Dark Star Lounge on the Citadel. Under slightly brighter lights, and absent a good buzz, she realizes the woman is even more devastatingly beautiful than she had imagined. Her pen pal! Her drop dead gorgeous, sexy penpal.

 _Focus on work. There must be something to do._ Her eyes strain on the monitor as if her life depended on it. Miranda stalked by earlier (or maybe she should refer to her as ML or M), ignoring Samantha's existence completely. _Maybe she didn't see you?_ A possibility but one she questions. Without any pressing questions regarding Shepard or how to catch dastardly spies, she may no longer see a need for her.

She opens up a new window on the computer. Maybe she'll send her a mocking email. _Not a desperately hurt one? Well, that's a start._

"Specialist Traynor?" The crisp, accented voice isn't immediately recognizable. Samantha turns and swallows a surprised expletive. "Ah, I see I caught you in the midst of writing me email. I hope you don't discard it upon our encounter. Your emails have been one of the few bright spots in the past months."

Samantha is fairly sure, but not one hundred percent convinced, that she doesn't just soundlessly move her lips. "Have they? I wouldn't have guessed from the lack of response." She looks at her face, smooth and pale as ivory— but bruised along her nose, along the corner of her jaw. "You're um—" she gestures hopelessly, as diplomatically as she can at Miranda's face, "you all right? Wait. I should see the other guy?"

Miranda grimaces. "We should avoid that, if it's at all possible."

"Oh, were you in that big Citadel coup thing? God, it's terrifying. I'm glad you're all right," she bites the corner of her lip, "erm—who else would needle me constantly for information? If you're here about the Commander—I'm afraid I have no more details. None that I can share, anyway—even with a mystery penpal."

Miranda's smile is bright against the dark of her eyes. "I may have asked for too much. I promise… I had my reasons," she shakes her head. "I've been assured the _Normandy_ is docked for a few days… while Shepard and the others assess the damage to the Citadel. _If_ I might inconvenience you further… how about a lunch date?" Samantha is still as her mind implodes. She doesn't mean lunch 'date'. She means… a lunch. It's similar to how straight women say 'girlfriend' when they really mean girl friend. Confounding women. "I could use a good meal and given their recent setback, Cerberus _shouldn't_ come after me so soon."

"Cerberus is after you?"

Miranda straightens. "It's… a long story. One… I'm not really looking to get into. But I would like that lunch—if you're agreeable." She looks around. "Why is it so dark in here? I'm surprised everyone isn't asleep at their stations. Everyone must be running on fumes."

"We're running on whatever is left after fumes."

"Is that right? All the more reason for some relaxation. Not that—I've ever seen much need for that myself but… it's on me," she offers. "The meal." Her eyes dim briefly. She's been on the run for so long that Samantha isn't sure she has the credits for it.

"I'd have to ask Commander Shepard," she blathers. Shepard is a hard ass. She won't let her. Which is probably best. The last thing she needs is to develop a crush on an intimidating woman who likes to drop off the face of the universe. Oh, and is being hunted by Cerberus assassins. "I—I wouldn't hold my breath. I'm not sure she likes me very much and … she's seemed so uptight lately—more so than usual—"

Miranda narrows her eyes. Shepard exits the elevator, settles her eyes on them before going to her console. Samantha turns sharply to focus back on her terminal. If she looks like she's slacking, Shepard will throw her off the ship. Miranda's eyes burn into her. A second later, Miranda clears her throat gently. "Shepard?" Samantha dares a glance to the Commander. She looks at them, serious and tired, sad. Major Alenko was a friend of hers. Samantha can't imagine what it'd be like watching friends die all the time—having friends attempt to kill her. "Would you mind terribly if I kidnapped your Specialist Traynor for a few hours?"

"If she's game," she jabs at the computer keys. What? If she's game? Samantha blinks. That's… unexpected. "Just bring her back in one piece. I need her on this ship." She pushes away from the terminal and gets back into the elevator. It's the most exciting and anti-climactic interaction she's had with her since she's joined the ship. So… win?

"Seems like she's amenable," Miranda nods. "Actually—I've a few errands to run. Why not make it dinner? I can get cleaned up… and you can finish your work?"

Samantha blinks. "Oh, sure." She'll get cleaned up? Oh, _God,_ what's she going to wear? _It's just dinner. A friendly dinner. People get cleaned up before they go to dinner. You're overreacting._ "Dinner…" date, "thing it is!"

"Dinner thing," Miranda crinkles her nose, "yes."

* * *

"Raiding the medi-gel supply again?" Dr. Michel asks.

Garrus stops, caught red handed—red taloned, whatever, claws wrapped around a few packets of gel. He tells himself to let go of the medi-gel but doesn't. "You saying I'm a lost cause, Michel? Hell, your bedside manner could use some work."

"Maybe you'd feel differently, if you let me show it off every now and then?" She says with a side glance. Garrus doesn't blush. Turians don't really do that, but he feels heat crawling up his body. Michel smiles, plucking the medi-gel packets from him, counting them out and adding the number to a clipboard. "So, you are here stealing supplies—"

"When you say it like that—it sounds so… exciting."

She smiles, "But you forget that I am the doctor on the _Normandy_. Shepard didn't bring me here for my good looks. And if she has, she's hidden it well." She crosses her arms gently.

"Maybe she's blind." Should he apologize for saying that? Take it back, maybe? _Sure. Go from the frying pan into the fire._

Michel blinks. There's a beat. Hrm. "Have a seat," she points at the medical bed. Garrus looks at it warily. "Go on."

"Ah—it's not necessary. You weren't with me on Omega." The things he saw, the things he experienced. He's been riddled with bullets. He took a rocket to the face. "I've learned a few tricks. Have a knack for patching myself back toget—" she pushes him back and his turian ass finds the medical bed before he expected, "her—"

"What happened?"

"On Omega?" He doesn't know where to start. Sidonis' betrayal, his squad, mourning Shepard's death. He picked up the mantle when she went. He remembers thinking he would do anything to have her back, to avenge her. He kept thinking how things could have been different. But what the hell could he have done against a Collector ship? It'd be easier if it was someone he could gun down. He thought that often. _If it was someone trying to take her down, I could stop that._ He did and now….

"On the Citadel," she corrects. She stops, in front of him, light green eyes introspective. "I heard about Major Alenko. I know he was a friend. I am sorry." Garrus flexes his mandibles, clears his throat again. A second later she eases medi-gel into the wound at his side. He bites back a cry, hadn't even noticed her doing it. The wound burns. Her eyes are cool. Normally he doesn't like that sort of thing, but there's something tranquil about them. Soothing. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He isn't sure. "Not much of a talker. Feelings…" he makes a face. "I prefer a spar session. Gets the tension out. Seems easier. More natural, anyway." She looks up at him, continuing to ease medi-gel into his side. When did he take that bullet? He isn't sure. It grazed him, hurts more than it should. Normally he doesn't really notice things like that. Everything is more vivid since he killed Kaidan.

"A spar partner may prove beneficial," she says with a nod, "easing tension is very important. If you lack a spar partner, there are other ways." She holds her hand at his side. **_Oh._** "You should take care of yourself, Garrus. You've always been reckless."

He laughs, embarrassed, too conscious of her touch. "Me? Reckless? No… I'm… unpredictable… bold!"

"I remember the way you used to rush into my clinic, guns blazing." She smiles faintly. "For what it's worth—I'm glad someone is there to make the difficult decisions. It couldn't have been easy but saving Shepard—that's important. But look out for yourself, as well. I'd hate for something to happen to you." She steps back to write into her datapad. "You're all done."

* * *

"Shepard. Got a minute?"

She's loitering near the memorial wall. Garrus has been visiting so often he's worn a path. He knows Shepard has noticed him there. Something has kept her away, given him space. Normally he'd think she didn't care. Now he wonders if she feels guilty. She wouldn't be the only one. "What's up?"

"Uh—in private, if you don't mind." Garrus notices her smirk, has seen her use it more often; her eyes remain clouded. She follows him to the battery. It's the only place that's ever really left alone. The lounge is always crowded and Life Support has become the go-to for secret make-out sessions. He has seen things he cannot unsee and would prefer to prevent any further psychological damage. _You killed a friend but the make-outs—that's what will scar you._

They've rarely spent time alone together since he returned to the _Normandy_. She seems nervous, fidgety. "Shoot," she says. "At least one of us is able to." She winces, paces. "Garrus, I'm sorry. I saw what was right in front of me and I couldn't… I wanted it to be different."

"You wanted for what to be different?"

She stills, brow creased. "Everything. If… I had done things differently—maybe it wouldn't have been so damned hard to convince him." She rubs at her forehead. "Ash, Wrex and now Kaidan, all on my watch."

"You forgot Tali," he snaps, "Thane, Grunt, Jacob, Kasumi, Mordin," he shrugs, not entirely surprised at her absentmindedness but nevertheless disappointed. "But who's keeping track?" On the field she's a force to be reckoned with. Off it, she's something else. Something new. Uncertain. What's going on with her? Does it involve Liara? "I need to know why he was so convinced, Shepard. I need to know I didn't gun down a friend for a Cerberus lapdog."

Shepard stiffens. "You didn't. I'm not," she says stiltedly.

"Why did he think you were?"

"I don't know." She meets his eyes only fleetingly. She rubs her arms, pressing against gooseflesh. Something humans do when they're nervous, scared. "I know we've had our issues… but I really need you to trust me on this one."

"How?" Why did Liara insist he come along? Why had Liara shrieked as if it was Shepard who had been gunned down? Why was Kaidan so convinced? All questions, no answers, and doubt sprouting in his stomach, making him sick. "Why?"

"Because I don't know what I'll do if I don't have anyone on my side." She presses the palms of her hands to her eyes, tilts her head back and takes a breath. So, it's that obvious that everyone has begun to turn against her? Maybe that's the reason she's been cleaning up her act. If he'd known he would have organized a mutiny sooner. "This is such a mess." He frowns. "You could have let him shoot me. You didn't. Do you regret it?"

Garrus exhales, moving over to his workbench. The conversation is difficult, unexpected, even if he's the one to have asked for it. "I'm not sure. Sorry. I'm sure it isn't what you wanted to hear." He picks up a wrench. "Prove to me that I did the right thing." Once again she's gone still. He scoffs slightly. "Just let me think on it over some calibrations."

He expects a joke, another smirk but she only shrugs. "Yeah, sure."

* * *

James gives her the tour.

It isn't anything she doesn't know but Maya Brooks 'oohs' and 'ahs', asks pointless questions that James answers good naturedly. She doesn't know much of anything about this one. His records are sealed and frankly, she never gave a damn about getting to know Shepard's new crew. She would get to know them once Grace took over. That was the plan, anyway. Instead, she wrote a pathetic little email, begging Shepard to let her join the crew.

After a _Who is this?_ and _How did you get this address?_ she got a simple response, letting her know her background scan had checked out and she was welcome to bring a footlocker and join the _Normandy_ until further notice. Miranda, in the meanwhile, has made it clear that she cannot let Liara T'Soni know of their work relationship—they're on the outs and she worries Liara will forbid her coming aboard if she were aware. Easy enough. She doesn't agree with Miranda's plan and she's more than happy to forget her altogether.

"And this is the weapon armory," James says, "but you probably noticed I keep the biggest guns on me." She looks at him and his face reddens. "Uh. Because of my arms? It's a joke, hey."

"Oh! Yes! Right! Tickets to the gun show! Of course." She gives an assertive nod. _Work on your jokes,_ she wants to say. Not that she blames him for his arrogance. He is a fortress of muscle, friendly enough, _and likely with the brains of a Neanderthal_. He could use a shave but he isn't hard on the eyes. She wonders what they'll look like, if he'll see it, when she blows Shepard's brains out. "I can barely tell the assault rifles from the shotguns," she begins to pick which ones she'll use. Something lighter.

"Hey, every marine's a rifleman, right? Ah, you probably won't have to arm up but it's always good to know your options and pick out your best fit."

"Maybe you could show me sometime?" She suggests before grimacing. Her arm throbs. She's eased what little medi-gel she can find onto it but it hasn't been much and the bullet is still lodged. She's fighting an infection. Perspiration beads her face lightly. It's likely she has a fever.

"You okay? I heard those Cerberus fucks got a couple of hits on you during the coup."

Who said that? Garrus? Liara…? Not that she expects either would take notice of her. Was it Shepard? "Oh. Yes! One or two. Really, _really,_ hurt." Not half as bad as other things have.

"You should see Dr. Michel. She can patch you up before whatever's got you down takes you out." He puts a hand to her forehead. The contact is unexpected and she nearly jumps away from him. She's never had contact that isn't violent, that isn't a means to an end. Except for _Her_. "Man, you are burning up. That's it, tour's over. Med-bay, now."

"Ah, no, really, I think I'll be okay—I really want to finish the tour. This is the _Normandy!_ Gosh! I can't believe I'm really on it."

James crosses his arms. "You stay here a little while, you'll get used to it. And if you stay _alive,_ I bet you'll enjoy it even more." The elevator doors open to the shuttle bay. Shepard steps out, bathed in the elevator light, too bright against the darkness. James smiles. "Hey, Lola! Sorry to disappoint but you missed my reps earlier."

"Ah, James. Haven't I told you, you don't need to show off for me anymore?" She crosses her arms, looks at the pair. Maya Brooks straightens, salutes sharply despite the crippling pain that shoots through her arm and shoulder. "Thought I should see how the _Normandy_ was holding up given all the missions lately. I didn't mean to interrupt you and your … guest."

"Shit, you haven't met? Commander Shepard, this is Staff Analyst Maya Brooks." James looks at Brooks. "Recently transferred here for her help during the coup. I was just showing her around. Figured somebody had to."

"Point taken. Thanks, James. I'll take over from here."

Rasa nearly gulps. James looks between the two of them. "Sure thing, Commander. I got some rifle maintenance I could be doing anyway. Uh—she needs to get to the med-bay, get checked out. She took some hits during the coup."

"Noted." Shepard nods at him and retreats to the elevator. Bile rising in her stomach, clawing its way to her throat, Rasa follows. She considers going to the armory, grabbing a shotgun, but she doesn't have the speed she needs and Shepard is fast. On the Citadel she could have sworn that it wasn't Shepard, that it was Grace. What was that? Wishful thinking…? The elevator doors close. Shepard slips her hands in her pockets and stares at the blinking numbers. They move past Engineering, past the crew deck, CIC, up to the cabin. An alarm goes off in Rasa's head.

When they arrive Shepard steps out. Maya follows. "Is this your cabin? Lieutenant Vega said I'd never get to see it."

"Guess there's a first time for everything." Shepard moves in. Rasa follows. Looks for weapons. There aren't any in sight. This would be a perfect opportunity. If this were a spy novel she might seduce her, enjoy it, but kill her, regardless. A few fish dart in the fish tank. Models of the Destiny Ascension, an Alliance fighter, hang in a display. Rasa's hot all over, sniffles a little. "Feeling all right?"

"Just a little lightheaded." It isn't a lie. "I can't believe I'm on the _Normandy_. In Commander Shepard's cabin. With Commander Shepard!" Ah, enthusiasm. It's draining.

Shepard's lips pull faintly. "Is that all it is? Sure it isn't because I killed that wannabe Shepard you thought could take me?" Everything goes still. Rasa hears the water sloshing in the fish tank. The soft techno music playing on the radio. The flickering of the lights. "How's your finger holding up? Could have sworn I'd broken it down there, _after_ I killed your pet project."

Rasa doesn't think. She charges. It's futile. Shepard blocks the first swing and dodges the second. She takes Rasa's arm, twists it behind her back, covers her mouth to silence her scream. Rasa burns. Sweat drenches her. Rage. Impotence. She's pressed face first to the fish tank, Shepard's body against hers, hard and unforgiving.

"Sloppy." Her lips against her ear. Rasa struggles, every piece of her fighting for what she thought had been resigned long ago. "Was this your big plan? Come here. Kill me? That shoulder of yours is _fucked._ " Shepard's fingers squeeze more tightly over her mouth. Maybe it would be fitting if she killed her. "You should have killed me on Tuchanka. You should have pulled the trigger as soon as you saw the N7 suit." Her voice grows hoarse. "Isn't that what you were supposed to do?"

Rasa goes limp. The forceful hands of before grow careful, shift her until her back is pressed to the tank, glide up to her neck, settling. Rasa thinks she'll start to strangle her. Instead her thumbs settle carefully along her jawline, her breathing deliberately slow. Rasa's heart hammers in her chest. "Grace…?" She repeats the name again, even more quietly, as if it were a vow.

Her eyes spark green, pained, before she nods. The air traps in Rasa's throat. For months she let her think she was dead. For months she lied to her. But she's alive. She's alive and she's accomplished what she set out to do. Rasa's breath hitches. Her eyes sting. She looks at her, now that she can. She's harder than before. A scar cuts across her brow. "I thought… you let me think…" Another nod. Curious, how she wants to throw her arms around her. Instead, she shifts, lifts, lips catching hers, fire shooting through her. She's alive. Grace is alive. She hadn't known how she'd wanted it, wished it, prayed it, begged for it—searched every manner of asking, how it destroyed her when nothing delivered her what she wanted.

This is the kiss she remembered. This is the one she replayed over and over in her mind, loathing herself all the while for it. _You're burning up,_ Shepard breathes between kisses. Is it her? She thought it was Shepard. Whatever. Rasa shakes her head. It doesn't matter. She'll survive. She wants this moment. She doesn't want it to go anywhere.

She hears something else in the distance. An elevator. Footsteps. Against her every desire, she pushes Shepard away. Like on that shuttle before the CAT6 program. Shepard stumbles back. Liara T'Soni enters the room. She enters as if she's accustomed to it. Is she? The coldness in her eyes ebbs and flows.

"I'm sorry," Liara doesn't sound sorry. "It wasn't my intention to intrude."

"I was just giving Staff Analyst Maya Brooks the tour," Shepard says to Liara, blinking, somewhat breathless. Liara narrows her eyes gently. "She's been gun-shy about meeting with Dr. Michel. But I've already scheduled an appointment for her." Rasa looks at her. Is that true? "Sorry, Brooks. Can't have anyone on my ship who isn't fit for duty." Shepard looks at Liara. "I've had to twist her arm to make her go."

So now she's a comedian.

"You should probably get to it then," Liara tells her coldly.

Rasa bristles. Smiles instead. "I guess I really can't say no to Captain's orders," she bubbles. "Okay. Um—good to meet you, Miss— is it Doctor T'Soni?" Another small nod. Neither Rasa nor Brooks can make this moment stretch out anymore. "Great! I'm Maya. Brooks! Which you already know. I'll leave you to it!" Her eyes catch Shepard's. She exits the room. The door shuts behind her. She stares at the door. She wonders what they're doing.

* * *

"I didn't know you were in the habit of giving tours," Liara says. Shepard's eyes are foggy. She swallows, looks at her. Liara sees her in a way that's familiar but out of reach. "Your face is flushed."

Shepard brings her fingers nervously to her hair. "I'm fighting a fever of some kind. Guess that blade on the Citadel cut deeper than I thought," she shrugs.

Liara wonders if it's true. What would the purpose be in lying about it? She could verify any information easily enough with Michel. Shepard got the injury helping Garrus. Kaidan is dead. Shepard didn't shoot— this woman, didn't shoot. She doesn't know if the woman she knew... would have. If it's the same woman or someone different. Someone evolved to be different. "Will you be all right?"

"You know, you can't just keep walking in here as if it were your cabin."

The iron in Shepard's voice surprises her. "Is it yours?"

Shepard's jaw tightens. "Why are you here?"

Shepard's on the defensive. She's always been that way. She's always been most dangerous when backed into a corner. Some part of Liara knows that were she anyone else, in the position to know what she possibly knows— things may have been concluded much differently. If this is Shepard, if this is some copy—perhaps she has the same weaknesses. "I've... been thinking. About everything you've said. It's—it's a lot to take in." She looks around the cabin, tries to ignore the memories.

On the Citadel, Shepard asked her not to give up on them. That there was nothing more important. She lied. She hurt her. Before then, Liara had never known a purer soul—despite her actions, she was unrepentant and brave. After Miranda brought her back she was different. She lied. She cheated. Maybe she'd always been like that. Maybe she'd only ever been another way with her. Liara chastised Garrus for idolizing Shepard, not knowing she did much the same.

Since Tuchanka this woman has let indignities go. She's borne Liara's anger, her attacks. Shepard's only contact has been kisses. Along her bruised flesh. Her skin still recalls the scratchiness of her lips, the warmth of her apology.

Shepard's silence is unsettling. Liara can't stand it. "Won't you say something?"

"You and Garrus think that maybe it should be my name on the memorial wall. You don't trust me. I can't make you trust me."

"I don't know what you are."

" _'What'_ I am?" She smiles ruefully. She sits on the couch and slides the decanter on the coffee table closer, pouring scotch into the lowball glass. She massages her temple.

Liara watches her apprehensively. "Are you all right?" She asks again. She doesn't know if she cares. These old habits are hard to let go of.

Shepard holds the lowball glass in her hands, brow knit thoughtfully. "You came here to tell me you don't buy my story. That's… just great. I'm... tired, Dr. T'Soni. Why don't you see yourself out? Unless you're going to try to take me out again."

Liara licks her lips, considers. "I've been able to verify some of what you've said." She draws breath. "But even if it's true, I have no way of knowing whether the woman in the video was you."

"Can a thing be a woman?" She takes a drink of scotch and stares ahead at nothing. "It wasn't me. I won't force you to meld minds with me to confirm it." Another drink, her smile is tinged bittersweet once more. "That isn't fun for anyone."

Liara walks closer, sits beside her. Shepard tenses and doesn't look at her. "What am I supposed to do about all of this? Can you blame my skepticism, after everything I've seen?" Shepard is quiet. "Before the Reapers hit earth and you were taken into custody we met in this cabin." She looks around now, remembers Shepard's words, her vows of love, the slow ferocity to her lovemaking. Liara wishes she could forget how she fumbled in the dark of her mind. "Do you remember any of that?"

"Why would I? It wasn't me."

Liara bites her tongue. She gave her the one thing Shepard might have latched onto. It's possible it was too obvious. Shepard manages to look blank and bereft in one. Miranda said Shepard killed a clone on Tuchanka. She remembers Shepard rushing into her office, bleeding and battered, stating she needed to get to her cabin. _If she was trying to get to her cabin, why rush into my office_? It makes no sense unless – of course. Her current office was Shepard's cabin on the SR-1, before it was blown up. She's ready to ask another question when Shepard speaks—

"For the record—the last thing I remember—the last thing I really remember of you— before everything went to hell— was telling you to get your ass on the escape pod. Good thing, too. Without you, would I be here?"

"You have her memories," she says somewhat breathlessly.

"They're my memories." She sets the lowball glass down. "Her memories. My memories. I don't know." She buries her fingers in her hair, reclines against the couch, closing her eyes.

"Why have you said those things to me?" She isn't sure if she's angry, curious. "Why have you—why have you spoken to me as if you know me? When you don't."

Shepard faces her now, eyes narrowed. "Because I _know_. Because I remember. Because I experienced it. I remember you, trapped in that stupid field on Therum," she laughs softly, "you sounded like such an idiot. It was pretty cute, though. You told me about asari myths and culture, about your mother. I know your scent, I know how you _feel_ , how you _taste_. Don't tell me I don't know you."

Liara's face heats. She knows the same of Shepard. She doesn't have to pay it any heed. "They're just memories."

"What makes us, if it isn't our memories?" She shrugs. "Your Shepard is dead, Liara. Sorry. The Collectors killed her. Me. Whoever. That Shepard on Tuchanka— all she had were memories. And a bunch of implants that made her go crazy, is my guess."

"You don't have to speak so lightly about it!"

"No? I thought you were some tough shit Shadow Broker now." She picks up the glass of scotch. "You took me by surprise, storming in here and flinging me against the wall. I would have never imagined the Liara I knew doing that." She looks at her again. "People change. You don't need to be the Liara I remember. I don't _need_ to be your Shepard. I need to win this war. I will win this war and I'll do it without Cerberus. Whatever you or I want me to be— it doesn't matter. What matters is stopping the Reapers."

"You talk about it as if it were so easy-"

"None of this has been easy!" She gets to her feet, her eyes, her biotics pulsing in blues and greens. They never did that before. It's Shepard but it isn't— her biotics are more powerful. The air crackles with energy, the scotch on the table rattles. Everything in the room does.

Liara stands. "It hasn't been easy for me either. You have no idea what I've been through. What I went through to get you to them. To bring you back."

Her lip curls, her jaw trembles. "Sorry to disappoint you." The biotics fade and everything in the room goes still.

Liara blinks. "You're angry at me? When you've been lying to me for who knows how long? Shepard is dead! If what you say is true, I have to mourn her again! Do you know how soul-draining that is?" Shepard looks away. "If I hadn't seen that evidence of…" she doesn't know whether to say 'you' or 'Shepard'. Both seem wrong, "would you have even told me— that you're – whatever it is you are?"

"Would you have noticed?" she asks, coldly. Liara lashes out. Shepard's fast. Her fingers snap around her wrist before the slap can connect. "No. You don't get to do that anymore. I'm getting pretty damned tired of everyone making me into their personal punching bag." Liara releases a sharp breath like a gasp, hot running through her, tears springing to the surface. "I'm sorry I lied to you. I didn't know any other way. I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted for you to look at me the way you're looking at me right now." Her thumb grazes along her face, easing the tears away. Shepard lets her go. Liara sniffles, wipes at her face, can't quite look at her. "Are we done here?"

"That's it, then." Her voice is bone dry. "She's gone."

"Not all of her. I'm still here." Shepard gives a small shake of her head. Whether to dismiss Liara or negate her own statement, she doesn't know. "I know you have a lot of questions. I can't imagine what you must be thinking. I'm sorry, I get—" her jaw twitches. "Angry. Defensive. I understand if you don't want me around. I can't make you think of me as anything more than you're able to. I wish that were different but it's not. All I ask is that you let us finish this thing. This Reaper War. Maybe you want to expose me—I don't think the Reaper War can afford that."

"The Reaper War or you?" It makes sense. Still, the Shepard that came back always had an angle, always had some crucial piece of information she was leaving out. "Is that your only reason for hesitating?"

"Everyone is depending on Shepard. What would it do to them to know she was dead? That it was some clone who'd taken over? Do you think I wanted any of this? I was trying to forget. I wanted to be someone else. I tried. On Earth for a little while. It felt like a lie." She shrugs. "This feels better— but I still don't want any of it. Think of me as a weapon. A tool. No one ever meant for me to be anything else."

Sad words. Liara isn't sure how true they are. She says she was meant to be a weapon—but the woman wasn't intended even for that. There was never any role intended for her. She was only meant to be an organ farm. Scraps. Pieces. "Did you always want this?" Shepard scowls. Liara shakes her head. She's said over and over again this is the last thing she wanted. "Why are you here, if you didn't want this? Did you just wake up one day? With all her abilities… with … with everything?" She bites her tongue. "Did anyone guide you?"

Shepard finishes the scotch, sets it down on the table without looking at her. "I was always meant to be a lone wolf." Her voice is flat, her brow furrowed. "I chose this path."


	30. Dinner Thing

Against her better judgment, Miranda returns to her old office to meet with Liara. Liara's fascination with Prothean culture (and their abominable designs) translates into what she's done with the office. It's a dungeon; too hot and too cold, too dark and always with the whir of computers and monitors, constantly churning and refreshing. Miranda's sure she'll break her neck tripping over the damned wires one of these days.

Fortunately she doesn't anticipate visiting often. She's surprised Liara has summoned her so soon. So much for loose ends and nearly chasing her out of the office. Liara's face is stone. Conflicted stone, if such a thing is possible. Miranda remains near the doorway, awaiting Liara's wrath over whatever it is that will set her off this time. Fickle woman.

Minutes have passed in silence. Miranda crosses her arms. "Let's get on with it, Liara. I have matters to attend to."

Miranda half expects Liara to snap back with a retort. Instead, Liara keeps her brow furrowed, fingertips pressing lightly against the computer console. "Shepard is dead. The clone took her place on Tuchanka." Miranda starts. Stops. Chills. "You warned me not to confront her after you sent the vid. I was… angry. I pulled a gun on her. She told me her story. I didn't believe it. But you've confirmed everything."

Miranda's mouth is dry. Grace is alive…? It's no wonder things have been looking up for the _Normandy_ crew. It makes sense. "That's…" she looks at her cautiously, unsure of what to say. "… Have you told anyone else about this?"

"No. Who would I tell? The story... It's… madness." She faces her, turning away from the console. "Shepard—that… thing… begged me not to tell anyone. I don't want to keep her secrets. So now, only you and I know." Miranda digests the words. Liara doesn't know who Rasa is. Rasa was allowed to join the _Normandy_ crew. She has to assume Grace has revealed herself to Rasa. Liara doesn't know Rasa. That's best. "This war…" she hesitates. "We should proceed with the operation as planned. With your… chip."

Miranda wavers. Grace has been helpful. But what do they know about her? The Illusive Man insisted they not implant Shepard. That was a mistake. Grace is not the real Shepard. A control chip might only assure that she stays on the correct path. A righteous path, one she can dictate. She can be what Shepard was supposed to be. She can stop the Reapers. "You're sure?" It doesn't matter. She'll go ahead as planned. "You don't seem very happy."

"What about any of this could possibly make me happy?" she shakes her head. Her eyes remain narrowed, raging, before she clenches her jaw. "Get it done."

"I'm glad we're in agreement." Not that it makes her particularly happy, either. "We keep this between us, understand? No one else can know." Not Grace. Not Rasa.

Liara nods resentfully.

* * *

The War Room.

Maya Brooks settles into her station, bright-eyed and eager. Of all her pretenses, this is the most taxing. She likes to think there is some piece of her in every act she puts on. That's how you make it real. Maya Brooks is intelligent but she doesn't show it. She is bumbling and eager, like some rabid, hyper puppy. The Alliance uniform is boring. She doesn't like the material. There is something to be said for its simplicity. Maybe that's why she admires Grace, like she once admired Wrex. What must it be like to not constantly be cloaked in layers of lies?

"Yo!"

Maya looks up to see James Vega stooping down, glancing into the station she's set up. Ah. He is eager and friendly, isn't he? If she's an obnoxious little Chihuahua, he's a big, dumb, drooling mountain of a dog. The stupid ones that try to sit on your lap, despite being three times your size. She's only seen that sort of thing though. She's never had a pet. "Mister Biscuits" doesn't exist. Maybe Grace qualified, long ago. The thought makes her feel guilty. "Lieutenant Vega!" Ugh. She jumps to her feet, whacks her head on the overhead console and grimaces before saluting. "I wasn't expecting to see you. Which was probably obvious." She smiles brightly and feels a bulb forming on her forehead. At least she can salute now. Thank you, Chloe Michel. Thank you, Grace. She thinks of the latter and her cheeks redden. Which works perfectly in her favor right now.

"Relax," he says with a slow smile. "Hey, you don't have to salute like that around me." He sits beside her and she can't help but take him in again, the way his shirt clings to his muscular frame. He sees her noticing, laughs—embarrassed…? And looks away. "So, uh, I see you're settling in. This going to be your new home base?"

"Yes! This. And my room. Probably mostly this," she says, looking around. No, the room. 'Shepard' has set her up in the room Zaeed Massani once occupied. For her 'recovery'. The soldiers have already begun griping but they'll get over it and forget in time. There are a few other soldiers some stations further. Rasa has no interest in getting to know them. Maya Brooks will no doubt begin to chat them up in time. "I'm not exactly equipped for field work. I can't imagine what it'd be like to go out there and… fight those _things._ " She shudders. "You and Commander Shepard are heroes." _That's laying it on a little thick._

James chuckles. "Hey, I remember when I felt like that too. Had to guard her back on Earth, when they had her locked up in the brig." Rasa looks at him, waits. "Crazy, being put in charge of someone you look up to. Never thought I'd be serving with her on the _Normandy_." He shrugs a little. "Maybe you and I can be bunk buddies." What? "Commander Shepard isn't exactly taking me out on the field these days."

She isn't? It makes sense. Grace wouldn't want her cover blown. She likely knows nothing of James. Rasa considers. She'll have to dig up dirt on James' history, on Shepard's history with James. "Who's she taking out these days? I can't imagine leaving you behind."

"Hooah! You know what's up." He laces his scar-nicked fingers in front of him. "Mostly the old squad. Liara and Garrus. They knew her before. They worked together. You're the new one—you can't fit in. Not like the ones she's run with before. Something about that first time that's hard to replace." Rasa narrows her eyes. So she's taking Garrus and Liara out. Liara who walks into her room. She wonders if they've slept together. The thought makes her… queasy. "Hey, you okay? You're looking a little pale."

"Oh. You know, this shoulder of mine! Dr. Michel took really good care of it. But it isn't back to business yet." It's mostly true.

"Yeah, not to mention the bump on your head. You just gotta stretch it out," he rotates his shoulder. Is she supposed to be jealous? Impressed? She is a little jealous. She's lost some flexibility. God, look at his arms. "You ever up early in the morning, maybe you can join me for some PT."

"PT!" PT. PT. PT… "Physical training! Yes! I'd love that. You can work me out." She nods. "I love morning workouts." No, no, no, she hates mornings, she hates PT. She's tired of this identity already.

James gets up. "Careful what you wish for, Brooks. I'll let you get back to it. Talk to you later?"

"Yes, sir!"

James half rolls his eyes at her. She can't blame him. She watches him walk off before returning her attention to the monitor in front of her. This is boring. She wonders how much access she'll have to the _Normandy_ , how much innocent digging she can do and remain undetected. She cracks her knuckles before frowning. No. There's EDI. There's the Shadow Broker. She massages her temple. She's going to die of boredom.

* * *

Miranda Lawson walks past her with an imperceptible nod. Shepard thinks of when they worked together. It was a difficult alliance in the beginning. They had reasons. She and Hope kidnapped (rescued) Oriana from the mercenaries. Miranda, in a surprising display of emotion went after Hope. Their partnership was strained from the start, born out of desperation and later, more of the same—trying to stop Shepard from handing the galaxy to the Reapers.

That partnership is over. Whether Shepard intended it or not, she is now alone. The Lone Wolf. Just like Hope wanted. Garrus would never accept what she is. Liara has rejected her. Only Hope or Rasa, Maya fucking Brooks, knows her now. Only she accepts her for who she is. Curious, after so much pushing and prodding for her to be Shepard. And now it's 'Grace' she whispers in her ear. That name, not her own anymore, given away, sends a trill through her like no touch can. Almost no touch can.

Liara lingers by her office doorway. Was she speaking to Miranda? She can't imagine what the two might have to talk about. _Don't fool yourself. You put your cards on the table. If Liara has been speaking to Miranda about what you told her, you're the one to blame for putting the knife in her hand._ Would Liara tell Miranda about her? Shepard would like to think she wouldn't. The last real exchange the two of them had was when she put an omni-blade to Miranda's throat. _You were the spare parts._ Miranda couldn't even pretend to feel anything about it. _Maybe that's all you were to her. Maybe that's all you are to Liara._

Maybe.

Their eyes lock. Liara's eyes are like ground diamonds. Shimmering, beautiful, cutting. Shepard averts her gaze. 'Staff Analyst Brooks' is rummaging around the kitchen island. Shepard smiles faintly without meaning to. If anyone knows what it's like to pull a long con, it's Hope, Rasa, whoever. Shepard approaches her. "Brooks." Maya yelps, dropping the box of cereal and spilling clovers and marshmallows all over the floor. "Commander Shepard! You startled me! Gosh, I'm such a klutz. I'm not this messy normally, I swear!"

They drop to one knee, beginning to collect the cereal. "Are you sure they let you into the Alliance?" Shepard asks loudly enough so that others can hear.

"Oh! Yes! I can forward you my records. You already have them, I think. I hope there's nothing bad in there," she smirks faintly. "I could ask you the same, Commander Shepard," she says softly enough so that even the _Normandy's_ sensitive mics couldn't pick it up.

Shepard's cheeks heat. She isn't sure if she feels she's being teased. There's some of that. It isn't malicious, insofar as she can tell. How strange that the last time they were together they were at odds. Now Hope feels like her only ally. Maybe she's an idiot. What if she only wants to feel close to someone? Being on the _Normandy_ shouldn't feel so lonely. Fabricated memories, whether of Liara or what she thought she had with Hope, shouldn't be the only thing she holds to.

"You all right?" Hope asks.

Shepard blinks. There's a bump on Hope's forehead. She reaches out, stops herself. Maya lowers her eyes. "Maya Brooks _is_ a klutz." She can't imagine Rasa having gotten into a skirmish aboard the _Normandy_ without Shepard having heard about it. Then again, the woman is capable of hiding just about anything. The air around them feels electric. She is overwhelmed by an urge to be alone with her. Being around Hope makes her feel as if the world weren't on the brink of disaster. Things were much simpler before, back when she didn't understand what she was being molded into, what she was being molded for.

"Maya Brooks is available later, if you are." Her voice is low and throaty, the one Shepard is accustomed to, not that other voice, higher pitched and moronic that's been coming out of her since she boarded the _Normandy_. Even now it's as if Hope can read her thoughts.

Their eyes meet for what Shepard thinks is a moment too long. She gives a slight nod, retrieving a dust pan and brush, cleaning up the mess. There are eyes boring into the back of her head. A large shadow looms over them and Maya jumps to her feet, talking animatedly to James, her fingers touching his arm. He smiles, surprised and pleased. They're joking about something but she can't focus. Shepard keeps her face neutral. She glances back. Liara hovers at the doorway to her office. Their eyes catch before Liara turns away, returning to her office.

* * *

Miranda looks around, trying poorly to hide her displeasure. Samantha maintains what she is sure to be a moronic grin on her face. Castle Arcade! Games! Games for lady friends. Games for women who are _not_ on a date. Games for sexy penpals. Sexy, _disappointed_ penpals. Miranda's face has already healed considerably. Though that line on her brow might become permanent at this rate. She turns curiously to Samantha, as if she were a live mine. Samantha tries not to stare at the elegant dress Miranda wears. And here she is in her fatigues. Has she screwed this all up? Was this… _Women like her don't go out with women like you. As fabulous as you are. Also, fairly sure she's straight._ Why didn't she ask Shepard? Or Liara! Liara would have known! Maybe. Though the prospect of approaching Liara is more daunting by the day. The woman has had a black cloud around her.

"You know…" Miranda considers her words, "when you mentioned 'games', I assumed you meant the Silver Coast Casino. Not…" She looks down below to see a holographic robot knock the other's head off. "This is…" she nearly winces, "… charming."

Samantha laughs nervously. Great. "Erm—we can head there, if you'd like. I don't have much in the way of credits but…" She could hack their systems in some way. Cheat them. But the Citadel likely wouldn't take lightly to it and the risk of imprisonment is probably not worth the affections of this woman. Maybe not, anyway. Samantha tells herself she doesn't really know her. In fact, she knows nothing about her. _You're letting your libido get the better of you. Your lonely, lonely thoroughly unsatiated libido._ How long has it been since she's even had a kiss? The closest she came would be weeks, or was it months ago, when Shepard sized her up as if she were a steak. Or whatever she eats. _Liara?_ She flushes.

"No," Miranda says with a regretful shake of her head, "I doubt they'd let you in, in that attire."

Samantha isn't sure if she's more indignant or apologetic. The Alliance uniform is one to be proud of! On the other hand, had she known, she would have dressed to kill. It would have been nice to dress up. She likes it, prefers it, but every marine is a rifleman. Even if her marksmanship could be better. "Then…" all right, so being indignant has gone out the window. "Sorry," she sighs, "I think… I got this all wrong." This is best. She shouldn't involve herself with a woman so offended by an arcade.

"You got… what wrong?"

There's no way to explain how she overthought (or didn't think enough) everything. Not without coming off as some idiot. "Maybe we should skip to dinner." _There will be absolutely no dessert._ "And then you can get back to your life—and whatever it is that you do. I can return to the _Normandy_ and you'll email when you need some kind of technical expertise."

Miranda sets a hand on the railing, eyes clouded over thoughtfully. "Oh. Well, all right."

* * *

Dinner thing. They grab a few containers of noodles from one of the food stands. Samantha hasn't spent too much time at the Silver Sun strip, what with that messy little war going on, and it appears that Miranda hasn't either. The crowds are unwelcome, but it's good to see people continuing their lives, pretending to be happy, at least. Maybe they're trying to get the little happiness they can before everything goes to hell. But it won't go to hell because of Shepard. Shepard, still strangely bearable Shepard, will put a stop to the Reapers. Samantha tells herself that. She tells herself that Shepard won't drag her out of the Citadel and throw her back to her station, either. Though she might prefer that, at this rate.

Crowds, crowds everywhere and nowhere to sit. If Miranda has an apartment, she isn't saying. Samantha blindly pushes through, finds a door and squeezes inside, Miranda behind her. For a moment, she's blinded. It's pitch black. Miranda grabs her arm. Her touch is surprisingly fierce. Her eyes light up and for a moment there is a current of electricity between them. Not the sexy kind. Biotics. She hadn't known Miranda was a biotic. It's… tingly.

"I know where we are," Miranda releases her and moves forward. When Samantha stands still, Miranda beckons her with a nod of her head. Samantha follows, the small containers of food dangling from her fingertips.

Soon, Samantha knows too. Pale blues and lights shimmer in the darkness. Tanks of water, larger than she's ever seen, surround her. Fish, whales, sharks swim through the waters. An aquarium. She didn't know the Citadel had any, though it makes sense. The Reapers have hit Earth hard, as well as the other planets. She wonders if these creatures will be the last of their kind.

There are Exit signs lit up at a distance. Did someone leave the doors open? Samantha still isn't sure how they wound up here. Miranda, for the moment, appears unbothered. She finds a bench and sits. Samantha joins her, leaving ample room between the two of them. For minutes they listen to the sound of water, the whir of the cleaning systems. For lack of any conversation they begin opening the food containers. The aroma of food is released and Samantha's stomach clenches in hunger. In all her nervousness, she'd forgotten to eat anything. Now she's hungry _and_ miserable.

"I thought we'd go to that new sushi restaurant," Miranda tells her. Samantha feels another crush of disappointment. Lovely. Another screw-up. "But all things considered, I'm glad we didn't." She looks at the tank.

Samantha manages a smile. "We could have brought it here and antagonized the fish." She bites her lower lip and finds a cheap pair of chopsticks, splitting them. "This was much easier through email."

"Much," Miranda agrees. There's that, at least. "We didn't get off to the best start in person." And likely won't be getting off at all. Samantha smiles wryly. "I should have seen this coming."

"So are you some sort of spy or something?" Miranda looks at her. Samantha digs the chopsticks into the container of noodles. "The first time we met you were able to pull up a frightening amount of information on me. No digging necessary. You ask about spies and you disappear. You hop from planet to planet and tell me you're on the run. Then you ask about Commander Shepard and…" she frowns, glancing at her. "You're… curious. Now that I think about it—really think about it—I'm not sure I should be here with you."

"You think I'm dangerous?" She's not offended. "I am. But not to you." Samantha has a bite of noodles. Her stomach clamors for it happily. Maybe with some food in her stomach she'll be able to think straight. Or as straight as she can around Miranda. Maybe she should be terrified but she's starving and she's with a beautiful woman. Maker, she's got the same Achilles heel as most men. "I suppose you think it's unfair, how much I know about you. How little you know about me."

"You must be _someone_ to have access to that kind of information."

"I am." A frown graces her features. "I know you have your concerns. I suppose I can't blame you. But… I worked with Shepard before. I was once stationed on the _Normandy_. I was, actually, when you helped me resolve the spy situation." There's a beat. "That was… a great help." Though she looks to be deep in thought again.

"Why ask me about Shepard when you were onboard with her?" But Miranda's face has become unreadable again and Samantha knows she's not going to get an answer. "Why aren't you on the _Normandy_ now? You worked with her before."

"It's complicated."

"How complicated?" She considers. "Complicated enough that you won't explain?"

"I knew you were bright." She opens up a can of the cheap beer and has a drink, makes a face. Samantha reasons she's used to wine and things that cost as much as the _Normandy_. Samantha can't say she knows a thing about her, but there's something about the way she carries herself. "If I'm to be honest…" another frown.

"I'm rather fond of honest," Samantha encourages before Miranda changes her mind entirely.

"It's…" there's a beat. "I… Well. The rumor is that Shepard worked with Cerberus a while back, to stop the Collectors. That part's true. I was… heavily involved in that project."

"How involved?" She only gets a look from Miranda in return. Samantha straightens. She unintentionally slides further away. The air goes out of her lungs. She can't be Cerberus. She's been onboard. She can't be Cerberus. Is she Cerberus? "You mentioned Cerberus was hunting you. Was that a lie? Are you—"

"No," Miranda reaches out, grabs her arm. "Not anymore. When that mission was over, I left them. I'm not involved with them any longer. I'm not a part of anything they've been doing. I've been trying to put a stop to them." She lets her go and sighs. "Which is part of the reason I'm in this whole bloody mess to begin with."

"You know the Illusive Man…?"

"I reported to him. Long ago. And once worked side by side with Kai Leng. The assassin who nearly killed the bloody Council." Her eyes narrow. "They weren't always like this. They were better."

Samantha scoffs. Is she serious? "When was that? When they were performing all kinds of barbaric experiments on aliens? Or when they were kidnapping biotics?" Miranda looks at her sharply. "Isn't the only difference now that they're going after humans, too?" Maybe it was the wrong thing to say. Miranda literally withdraws. She can't apologize. Cerberus has been a pain in everyone's ass. Brutal. "But… for what it's worth," she searches, then stops short. "I suppose I could talk about how Shepard and her squad saved me on Horizon. But you already know that," she smiles with a nod at the omni-tool.

"I was… short with you when we first met. I apologize. I'm used to getting what I want, when I want it."

"I've no doubt of that."

"You presented an unexpected challenge. Fighting off waves of soldiers, sure. Reconstruct a person from dead tissue, no problem. Approach a situation diplomatically, without threats of violence, I'm done for."

Samantha laughs. "Seriously? But aren't you—like perfect?" Has she really rebuilt someone from dead tissue? "Your problem is, you just don't know how to handle rejection."

"You must know about it. Care to share any insight?"

Samantha nearly chokes on her noodles. She coughs and has a sip of beer to swallow them down. "Low blow." Miranda looks at her, puzzled. "You mean you didn't mean to—" she laughs again. Is that why she's so awkward and rude? She just doesn't know how to interact with people? "You really are shit at—" She stops when Miranda touches a hand to her face and presses their lips together. Maybe short circuits would be more accurate. Overload. Something. Something. Something. "I. What was I saying?" she doesn't remember.

Miranda stares, lips parted, seemingly surprised at herself. "Rejection. You said you would show me how to handle rejection."

"I think _you_ said that," Samantha says lightheaded and dizzy, "You cheat." She closes the distance between them and kisses her once more. Maybe it is a dinner date.

* * *

It's well past midnight when Shepard finally arrives. Rasa abandoned the notion that Shepard would come. Her mind attacked her with all manner of petty things or people Shepard could be doing. The jealousy is pathetic and unwelcome. She fell asleep fitfully, telling herself she wasn't bothered.

The doors to the rooms lock but Shepard has access one way or another. The light from the hall bleeds into the room, casting a golden outline around Shepard before it is snapped out and she is returned to shadows.

Rasa sits up. She doesn't fling the blankets away. The room is cold and there is still some part of her that hesitates around Shepard. _Grace._ What if it's a cruel joke? What if that cut on Grace's brow is a beacon, as bright as any other, that this is Shepard and not Grace. Grace would never allow herself scars. Grace sits at the edge of the bed. Funny, how quickly she slips back into that when it's only the two of them. They were hermits for so long.

Grace scoots back. Rasa shifts forward so that they're almost sitting next to one another. After their reunion they've had little time together. A storm of emotion has swept over Rasa, nonsensical when she's near. All she knows is she's happy that Grace is alive. _You're happy the Reapers can be stopped after all._

The clock reads 3:31 am. "I've created a private feed between our omni-tools." Grace says. Rasa nods. She'll double-check the encryption protocols in place, make triple sure no one can eavesdrop on their line of communication. They can't be too careful around the Shadow Broker and EDI. A minute passes in silence. She must have just gotten out of bed or the shower. Warmth radiates from her. "This is crazy."

"What is?"

"You. Here. I…"

Let her think she was dead. Rasa bites the words back. It's petty to argue the point. Maybe it isn't but she can't think of an argument that doesn't stem from emotion, an argument that doesn't come from a place of profound loss. "Would you prefer I weren't?" she tries to keep her voice flippant.

There's a small shake of her head. She keeps her hands balled on her knees. "I don't know what to call you." The statement seems to come from nowhere. Rasa tries to recall a time, since she tracked her down on Earth when Grace addressed her. She falls short. Maybe it's late and she doesn't want to think of their fractures. "Maya Brooks? Is that what you want?" she scoffs. "What's your real name?" Rasa waits. Shepard shakes her head, bows it in disappointment or anger.

"My name doesn't matter. I never keep them for more than a few days anyway. I never did. Not until you." Grace's silhouette turns toward her. "Brooks was… is… It was the name of someone… a woman I met. When I was very young. She was someone like me. A liar."

Shepard frowns gently. "Liara knows who I am." Rasa sits up straighter. The words are such a sudden turnaround that she can't immediately formulate a response. "Someone sent her a vid of Shepard and Udina." _Lawson._ "Liara came in, gun's blazing. She was going to take me out."

"You could have taken her out," she snaps.

"Right. Just kill the Shadow Broker. No one would have noticed."

"So you hesitated because she's the Shadow Broker?" Rasa isn't surprised when Shepard clenches her jaw. She swallows, tries to shed the heat in her voice. She had not meant the challenge but neither does she believe Shepard's reasoning. "What else does she know?"

"Nothing. What happened on Tuchanka," she says, as if everyone knows. Rasa sure as hell doesn't know. All she has is speculation. Grace lived. Shepard died. Maybe that's all she needs to know. "That … that I'm Shepard's scraps. That's all."

" _'That's all'?_ And me?"

"I left you out of it."

"Why?" She raises a hand, dismissing it. The question is a pointless one. There are plenty of reasons for her to not be mentioned. If Liara knew she'd come after her. If she knew of her previous ties to Cerberus, she might shoot her on the spot. "Damn it, Grace, everything we did, everything we worked for was to prevent _anyone_ from knowing. You can't trust her! What if she turns on you?"

Shepard parts her lips, gives a small shake of her head. "She won't."

"Why wouldn't she? You're not Shepard. You're _Grace._ No matter what you look like, sound like, fuck like, You. Are. Grace." Rasa sighs, exasperated. She isn't getting through to her. Even in the darkness, she can see her withdrawing. She bites her tongue and touches her arm delicately.

"You're the one who forced me into this. This, this," she waves around the ship, "is what you wanted."

"I said you weren't ready. I wanted you to wait."

"You were _wrong_."

"I was. I'm sorry." The words come unthinkingly. Grace blinks, the tension going out of her. Rasa smiles wryly. No doubt she isn't used to apologies from her. "You've worked hard to get here. I pushed you but it wouldn't have been possible if it wasn't for some…" she tries to think of the word. "Spark—some drive you have." She isn't accustomed to being at a loss for words. "I don't want this to turn into politics. I don't want them to think… less… lesser of… It could interfere with the war effort. With everything you can do."

"You believe in me?" she sounds skeptical.

"After everything you've done I'd be a fool not to." Grace smiles faintly. Rasa tries not to be distracted by it. "Is Liara going to be a problem?"

"She thinks I'm a thing. Maybe an it," Grace scoots closer, her thumb brushing along the crease on her brow. "Something you both share."

"Not anymore. I was wrong about that, too." She sighs softly, trying to hold on to the anger. "You kept me waiting."

Grace kisses her. A whisper and promise in the dark. Rasa returns the kiss and pulls her closer. The sheet between them is shoved to the side. They kneel on the bed, short on breath, peeling away one another's clothes until the only thing that stands between them are old reservations, unfinished roads.

Shepard's eyes snap open at 5:05 hours. Hope, Rasa, Maya Brooks lies next to her, asleep. Shepard watches her. Even asleep, she seems uneasy, as if she can't ever let her guard down. Shepard's fingers trace gingerly over the scar on Hope's shoulder. Can she use a sniper rifle anymore? _You took that from her._ She frowns, presses a careful kiss to it before sitting up and dressing.

Brooks was the name of someone she once met. A liar. Shepard regrets interrupting her in the one moment she was being forthcoming. The revelation about Liara felt like a necessity. Continuing their work under the illusion that no one knew her real identity could have been problematic later on. She'd rather deal with the issue head on. All things considered, Hope… or Maya, whoever, took it fairly well.

The sheets rustle and Shepard glances at her, continuing to lace her boots. A silence follows. They're unsure. This was different than before. She knows how Hope has fought against any relationship between them, any feelings but this… "Sorry," Shepard says to say something, "I didn't mean to wake you. Didn't mean to fall asleep, either."

Hope's momentarily puzzled. "It's fine." Shepard smiles and finishes lacing her boots. Another long minute passes. "Grace...?" Her voice is soft. Shepard waits. Hope keeps her head ducked, considering.

Shepard takes a slow breath. "Are you sorry about this?"

"What? No." She sits up, takes her hand but only for a moment. "I've been thinking." The words are tight as if she were thinking them. "We've come so far from where we started. And things… things have changed between us." They have. Often. At least things are swinging around to a more positive place for once. Hope clenches her jaw. "I've done… Grace, I've done terrible things."

Shepard smiles faintly. "We both have." Hope is ready to protest but Shepard kisses her. "What matters is now. It will be better. All of it." Hope still looks uncertain. "And this… whatever's between us—we'll make it up as we go along." Hope was always clear that sex and love had nothing to do with one another. Shepard hoped – thought—having Hope out of her life would shut all those feelings off. Everything came back when Hope did. It's hard to hold on to the anger around her. It's impossible. Impossible to get a hold of her, no matter how she tries. "You're sure this was okay?"

"Yes. I'm sure."

"It was…"

"I know." She runs a hand through her hair. "I'd ask you to stay… but…" The ship is waking up. She's stayed far too long as it is. They exchange another brief kiss. Grace heads to the door when Hope calls out to her. She seems to stare at the alarm clock, not at her. "Are you and…" Shepard knows what she wants to ask. Eventually Hope gives a brief shake of her head. "Just be careful who you get close to." Shepard nods faintly. "Will I see you later? We can talk. We should talk."

Talk? "I'll try not to be too late next time." Hope nods. "You could probably get another twenty minutes of shuteye, if you try really hard." She smiles, exits, exhausted. Happy. Grace. She's Grace. She gave away her name but she knows who she is. Maybe her memories are just that… memories. No matter how real they feel… Or maybe it's easier to relinquish Jane Shepard when Garrus and Liara are against her. Aren't experiences just as important as memories? More so? Hope knows who she is. Hope kisses her, made love to her like she mattered. There's security in that. There's meaning in that.

She climbs the stairs to the third floor. Liara catches sight of her. Shepard nods, groaning inwardly. Hopefully she hasn't been up long. Hopefully she hasn't been spying. Shepard ignores her and heads to the elevator. Liara follows after her. They remain at arm's length. "Dr. T'Soni," Shepard punches the button for the cabin. "It's early."

"Or late, depending on how you look at it."

Shepard slides her hands into her pockets. "I'm heading up to my cabin," she tells her, though it should be fairly obvious. Liara frowns at the floor buttons. "Can I help you?" she asks when Liara says nothing.

"Yes." The elevator doors open and they both step out onto the cabin floor. If only Hope could visit. If only they didn't have to sneak around. If only she didn't feel so fucking shaken when Liara is near. Her security, her sense of who she is seems to shift when either woman is around. "Do you have a minute? Can I come in?"

"No. You can't come in." Shepard stands in front of the door. "I've told you, I don't want you coming and going as you please. You know what I am. You don't like it. If you have something for Shepard, get on with it. I'd like to get some shuteye."

"Late night, then," her smile isn't pleasant. "It's no wonder I couldn't find you." Shepard stares at her. Has she been spying…? Is she jealous? "There's been an incident. Or… suspicious activity, in either case," she paces the small space between the elevator and the room. "There's an Ardat-Yakshi monastery on Lesuss. Several asari commando units have disappeared investigating it. There are fears that something has gone wrong."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"You know what Ardat-Yakshi are." She doesn't. She'll look it up on the extranet after Liara leaves. "If the Reapers have … established a foothold. Goddess, Shepard. I'd like for us to take a look. I think it could be important. To the war effort." Liara stares her down. "I'm asking. As a favor."

Shepard frowns. She wonders if she's capable of saying 'no' to her. "If it's that important," she says grudgingly. "Have Joker set the course. We'll go there as soon as the _Normandy_ is fit." She turns to the cabin door, her fingers rolled into a fist. "Liara—" Liara stops the elevator from closing. _Don't use what we had against me,_ she wants to say. But her throat remains stubbornly closed. She can't say the words. "Get some rest," she manages, entering the cabin, not looking back.

* * *

The last thing Samantha expects when she steps out of the elevator at 7:02 in the morning is a standing ovation from Joker, EDI, Vega, Westmoreland and Campbell.

She's _late._ She's late and they all know. "Oh, is this a sarcastic applause party?" She asks. What else could it be? "Look, I'm sorry I'm late— I had leave! Commander Shepard approved it," she adds more quietly. But she isn't sure that it extended into her CIC shift the following day.

They continue to clap. "Well done, Traynor!" James comes over, slaps a hand on her shoulder. "Walk of shame, _Normandy_ style!"

Oh god. She manages to freeze and melt in one. "I— erm— what—?"

"We are celebrating your evening of sexual intercourse," EDI tells her frankly. "The crew is aware of your date. I told them," she elaborates.

She _is_ a blabbermouth! "Is this a nightmare? Some horrible, horrible nightmare?" She wonders aloud. "Can I wake up now? Can I wake up now before my clothes come off?"

"Not before that," Westmoreland says.

"Oh god," she takes a step out of the elevator but isn't sure she should.

"Damn!" Joker raises his hands. "Way to knock it out of the park, Traynor! I mean, Miranda? Scary hot! Mostly scary. Hey, you know, I wasn't sure but does she have blood in her veins or is it all ice? You'd know better than anyone." He nudges EDI.

EDI narrows her eyes thoughtfully. "Oh. You're implying blood flow to the genitals due to sexual arousal."

"This conversation is highly inappropriate!" Samantha tells them. And if it were happening to anyone else she would revel in it, but this is her and it's not half as fun. Is it up to her to defend Miranda's honor? It'd be one thing if they'd actually slept together, _as if you'd be able to function if you had_ , but what they'd had was a lengthy and surprisingly torrid make-out session with hands, curious, curious hands that made her feel as if she were made of goo. They'd barely gotten their fingers beneath one another's clothing when Oriana had stumbled in, drunk and happy.

 _Miri... Who's... Oh my god!_ a happy squeal. _OhmyGod!_

 _Oh my god._ Miranda had been much less enthused.

Then Oriana ate their dinner leftovers to sober up, asking pressing, annoying questions about their evening. Miranda looked at Samantha apologetically. _I really need to get my own place._

"So, come on, details, is she really perfect?" Joker asks. "Physically, I mean, we all know her personality could use some work." Samantha shoots him a look. "Too far? You just don't know her."

"I need to get to CIC," she complains.

"Don't worry, Copeland's manning your station," James says.

Maya Brooks walks into the scene. "You slept with Miranda Lawson?" Her voice is starkly different. She sounds like… her. They all look at Brooks. She smiles brightly. "Wow! Congratulations! Love is in the air!"

Maya Brooks quickly makes her exit, heading to the elevator. Samantha, in desperation, steps back inside. She looks tired. The elevator doors shut. Samantha glances at her. She's gorgeous. Serious, until she notices Samantha staring and she smiles.

Samantha would love to get some sleep but she expects she'll fumble her way through the day. Miranda walked with her to the docking bay. Neither one of them got sleep. They shared a too brief kiss at the docks, both nervous and anxious in the daylight.

 _We'll talk later. Sorry about Ori._ Miranda said.

Samantha isn't sure whether to believe her. It all seems too good to be true. Outside from the teenaged sister.

The doors open to CIC. Commander Shepard stands with a coffee mug in hand, a smile on her lips. At least she won't join in the ritual hazing. "Hey, look what the cat dragged in. Looks like someone got lucky last night."

Samantha and Brooks clear their throats.

* * *

She finds her in Kasumi's old room, Port Observation, which now seems to have been converted into a full-fledged lounge. There's a poker table to one side, a bar to the other, seating in the middle. Shepard stands by the viewport, alone, staring out at the Citadel.

Grace. X8. The clone. Time to see how good of an act she puts on. Liara says the old Shepard is dead. Miranda wonders why she has felt no grief over the news. The person standing before her looks indistinguishable from Shepard. Whoever she is, they're going to need her. Maybe it's better to just accept it, to think of her as Shepard. Perhaps it will make it easier implant the control chip. Why hasn't she mourned?

Shepard turns at the sound of the door. "Miranda," she raises the glass in her hand. "You've been around here a lot lately. Planning on asking out any more of my crew?"

Miranda concedes a wry half-smile. "Perhaps later." She walks to the bar, pours some rum into a tumbler. "I know you're leaving soon. It occurs to me, we haven't had a chance to talk."

"Oh." She shifts uncomfortably. "Yeah. With everything that's been going on..."

"It's okay," Miranda stops her with slight shake of the head and a raised hand. "Let's catch up now."

She shrugs. "All right."

"Would you like another?" Miranda points to the nearly empty glass in Shepard's hand.

A shake of the head. "No." She takes a seat.

Miranda returns from the bar and sits across from her, crossing one knee over the other. "I was sorry to hear about Kaidan."

She looks down at the glass in her hand, swirling the liquid within. "Yeah." She raises it to her lips and gulps it down. "I feel bad for Garrus. He's not sure he did the right thing. Like maybe he backed the wrong Spectre."

Miranda nods thoughtfully. "Not surprising, considering how you two left things before."

Shepard frowns. How much does she know about that? "Let's not dredge that up." Ah.

"Sorry." Miranda sips the rum, feeling the soft, pleasant burn as it travels down. "You did a good thing on the Citadel. Saved a lot of people, including the Council. Some of us were worried you had gotten a little too cozy with the Illusive Man."

Shepard snorts softly. "That's a hell of a thing for you to say to me."

"I've long since broken my ties with Cerberus. You know that."

A pause, then a conciliatory nod. "So have I."

"Good. I'm glad you were able to escape his orbit. He's a madman, but his charisma is undeniable." Miranda shifts in her seat. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to tell you about the clones. I was under orders at the time." She studies the clone's face. "I hear you had a run-in with X8. Can you tell me what happened?"

"You heard about that?" She seems annoyed by the question. "There's not much to tell. The clone got her ass beat pretty good on Omega but she slipped away. We found each other again on Tuchanka. We fell into a hole. One of us crawled out. The other one didn't. End of story."

"I see." Miranda looks away. "I met her on Thessia. She helped me with Oriana."

"How'd that go?"

"As I said, she helped me. Then she put a knife to my throat. I'm afraid I had spoken rashly and angered her. I never did thank her for Oriana. I suppose I regret having not had the chance."

"Heartbreaking."

"Quite." Miranda turns to her. "I'd like permission to join the _Normandy_."

Shepard blinks. "No."

Miranda raises her eyebrows, startled at the abruptness of the denial. "I don't expect my old position back. I realize this is an Alliance vessel now. I just..."

Shepard shakes her head. "It's not that."

"Then what?"

She leans forward in her seat. "This isn't the right place for you. Look, I know you have many talents. You're smart, driven..."

"You don't need to let me down easy." Samantha never did get around to telling her how to deal with rejection. "Just cut to the chase."

She smiles tightly and leans back again. "I have something else in mind for you."

"Oh?" This should be good.

Shepard turns in her seat and nods toward the viewport. "Tell me what you know about _that_."

Miranda looks out the viewport. The Citadel. She shrugs. "Not much more than you do, I imagine. Much of it is a mystery. It was thought to have been built by the Protheans, but now we know it was built by the Reapers. It's millions of years old."

"Yes, but what _is_ it?"

Miranda furrows her brow. "It's a space station. The central hub of galactic civilization, arguably. Millions of people live there. The Council..."

Shepard shakes her head. "No. That's what it is to us. What is it to the Reapers?"

Miranda thinks for a moment. "It's a relay."

"Exactly." Shepard looks at her with a hint of excitement in her eyes.

"I fail to see the relevance, Shepard. The Reapers are no longer able to use it as such. The Protheans saw to that."

"Right. They realized each Harvest began with the Reapers sending a signal to the Citadel from dark space. The Citadel would then signal the keepers to activate the relay and let the Reapers through. Fortunately, the Protheans managed to alter the Citadel's signal so the keepers would no longer recognize it. It's what gave us a chance in this war."

Miranda frowns. She doesn't need a history lesson. "What does this have to do with me?"

"I need someone to study the keepers. Figure out how they operate. How to communicate with them. How to control them."

"The keepers?" Miranda scoffs. "The asari tried that. They dissolve into sludge the moment you capture them or try to tinker with them."

"I didn't say it would be easy. Aren't you the woman who brought me back from the dead?"

"Yes, but..."

"I need _that_ woman. Not Miranda the operative. Not Miranda the consultant. I need Miranda the scientist, Miranda the miracle-worker, who turns the impossible into reality."

She knows how to give a pitch, she'll give her that much. But she's not sold. Not yet. "Why? How is this going to help us win the war?"

Shepard considers the question for a moment. "I don't know," she concedes. "I don't have a great answer for that right now. But I think the Citadel is still the key to this whole thing, and the keepers are the key to unlocking the secrets of the Citadel. I guess... I guess I'm asking you to trust me."

Miranda tries not to smirk. The Illusive Man often offered up such appeals to _belief_ , though admittedly he was less earnest. Lazarus, for all of its technological innovations, was as much as an exercise in faith as anything. It was a singular feat that had never been accomplished before, and hasn't since. A miracle. What Shepard is proposing is a gamble. One that might not pay off. But what if she's right? Shit. Is she actually considering this? Her mind races, counting the obstacles. "It's illegal to interfere with the keepers. C-Sec won't allow it."

"Leave that to me. I'm a Spectre now. I just saved the Council's collective ass. They owe me. I'll get you whatever clearances you need."

"I would also need considerable resources. Equipment, credits, assistants, top-notch scientists. I didn't pull off Lazarus by myself."

Shepard nods. "You'll have to make do with less than what you might be used to, but I'll make sure you get what you need. And I'll help you find people. There are still some brilliant minds around that haven't been recruited to the Crucible."

"You can start by giving me Specialist Traynor."

A chuckle. "That must have been some first date."

"That has nothing to do with it. Specialist Traynor's expertise with signal..."

Shepard waves off the rest of her response. "Fine. If that's what it takes, you can borrow her for a while, just to help you get started. But it isn't permanent. I'm going to need her back on the _Normandy_." She stands, extending a hand. "Agreed?"

Miranda rises and takes the proffered hand, giving it a firm shake. "All right, Shepard. You have a deal."

"Good," Shepard smiles. "I'll go talk to the Council and get the ball rolling." She walks to the door. "Feel free to stay and finish your drink. We're not leaving port for another couple hours." She exits the room, the door hissing shut behind her.

Miranda walks over to the viewport and stares out, not seeing. The project she's just been handed is exciting, intriguing, but she finds her thoughts drawn to Shepard. The Shepard she knew, the one she spent two years rebuilding and the better part of another year guiding, is dead. Her greatest success. Her greatest failure. Her friend at the end, though it had been a long, torturous path to that point. She's gone forever this time, used up, broken and discarded at the bottom of some hole.

Something long pent up bubbles to the surface. She feels wetness on her cheeks. Now? How strange. She squeezes her eyes shut as tears escape down her face.


	31. Trust

The shriek in the abandoned monastery pierces like a cry in the night.

Cold sweat swaddles Shepard. No matter how she fights, she can't get warm. Her thoughts beat like a caged bird. The monastery is a tomb. Liara, beside her, appears unnerved, her face tight but refusing to relinquish any emotion. Morinth walks confidently ahead, Vindicator ready to mow down the cannibals that have come before them. "Through here," she tells them in her flat, soothing way. She hurries onward into the darkness.

Liara grabs Shepard's arm. "Why is Samara here?" Shepard pulls free. Liara frowns. "I know about her daughters but the timing is… curious, wouldn't you say?"

"Maybe the asari government contacted her. You're not the only hotshot asari around." Shepard shrugs when Liara scowls. "She's a justicar." Liara is unconvinced. "How can you possibly have a problem with this?" she waits, remembers what Morinth told her, how Shepard abused Samara's oath. "Shepard fucked her. It wasn't me." It isn't even Samara with them. "Get over it."

"Something doesn't feel right." Another wail fills the darkness. Liara straightens, looks around uncertainly, stands, unconsciously, closer to Shepard. "Goddess, what is that?"

"Whatever it is, I doubt it wants a hug." She looks around the monastery, the Carnifex flashlight shining on the blood coagulating on the floor and walls. Skin tissue hangs like veins to the walls. A heart lies like a discarded stone on the floor. The smell is thick and rusty, the air heavy and oppressive. "Just be ready to kill it."

"Violence isn't the only solution."

"It's fast and it works." She moves ahead.

Liara quickly follows on her heels. "You need to be focused."

"You saying I'm not?"

"Something's happened. I know when you're distracted."

Shepard barely suppresses a sneer. Liara only pretends to know her when it works in her favor. _Grace… there's something I need to tell you. Hope's voice is low and uncertain. When she finally meets her eyes, there's so much emotion in them that Shepard doesn't recognize her._ "Mind your own business, T'Soni."

Ahead, Morinth waits, beckoning them closer, her eyes luminescent and hungry in the dark. Something tickles in Shepard's mind, crawling, massaging.

* * *

 _Shepard, I am pleased to see you. The voice is a show for Benezia's daughter but Morinth makes sure to put a possessive hand on Shepard's shoulder and murmur in her ear, eyes trailing over Liara as she does so. You'll never guess what Miranda and your little asari are planning for you._

The Reapers are after Ardat-Yakshi. It's practical. Morinth knew it would only be a matter of time. The Reapers' plans to dominate her kind interests her. Those machines hunger—a surprisingly sentient act. They ache to feed, absorb, become more powerful. She has no intention of letting them continue their cycle but a mind can be curious. What kind of abomination will they turn the asari into? Or is it only the Ardat-Yakshi they desire? No doubt they'll be monstrously beautiful, powerful. But not Rila, not Falere. They're hers.

Although… it is their own fault, abandoning their freedoms because their mother's poison got into their heads. She taught her daughters to be ashamed and afraid of themselves, instead of applauding them for their uniqueness and power. Jealous bitch.

The asari diplomats are shitting themselves. For millenia the Ardat-Yakshi have been the dirty secret of the regal and always uptight asari. Ardat-Yakshi were kept hidden away like soiled linens and now…

The Reapers have noticed them. It speaks to the Ardat-Yakshi's power, long taught to be buried. How will they spread, Morinth wonders. The Ardat-Yakshi will serve no master. The Reapers would no doubt use them to sweep throughout the galaxy like a pestilence, consuming everything in their path. But that would be a waste of their considerable talents. The Reapers, ultimately, are machines. They lack creativity, they lack chaos. They want order. To the Reapers, life is an algorithm – a mathematical equation. 'Perfect,' dull, like Miranda. It is the same reason she will not go along with Miranda and Liara's plan, even if she has agreed to. A chipped Shepard is no Shepard at all.

Miranda and Liara will not have the control they desire just as the Reapers will be denied an end to chaos.

Morinth will not let them have her sisters. Better they join her on the _Night Winds_ , help stop the Reapers and then, take what is theirs, what they have long been denied, their need to feed.

"You look deep in thought," Shepard comments.

Morinth smiles. Usually when people say things like that to her, they're trying to figure her out, an impossible task that only idiots attempt, usually, when they're hoping to get into her pants. She thinks of her physical unions with Shepard and wonders of Samara's and Shepard's. What were those melds like? _Justice, justice, I will avenge this injustice, (no, she won't) justice?_ Morinth was once jealous of normal asari who could enjoy those things. Now she knows she has been blessed with limitless power – all she has to do is take it. Do the kisses of this Shepard taste the same? Shepard left her unsatisfied and hungry but Morinth _has_ fed. Her sisters must be starved. "How's Staff Analyst Maya Brooks?" Samara asks.

"That's not up for discussion."

Trouble in paradise. Samara reveals nothing of Morinth's smile. "You know, it's usually the purebloods you have to worry about." She glances at Liara, who stands by a computer console in the distance under flickering lights, digging through its contents. Liara looks at them trepidatiously. Samara nods soberly. "Guess she got off lucky." So did Shepard. Both of them.

"So did you."

Morinth's eyes dance. "After we finish here, we should return to the _Night Winds_. Just the two of us."

"Why? Come back to the _Normandy_. We could use you."

"I'd rather have you to myself. What I have to share with you about your 'friends'… is private." She touches her fingertips to Shepard's chest plate and steps back. Liara notices because Morinth waited until she would.

There's growling in the distance. They ready their weapons and move ahead, eager for a fight. Liara scrambles to get to them.

* * *

 _I did something. You were young. You weren't a person. You weren't even a thing. I needed to be sure you were worth the time… the investment. I needed to be sure you could be Shepard. I initially planned to wait until you were ready but soon realized that would defeat the purpose. Shepard should be able to overcome anything. Waiting until you were ready would prove nothing. It would be sentimental. I'm not sentimental._

The shrieking asari snaps Shepard out of it.

The cannibal has wrapped a meaty arm around the asari's arm. The stench is unbearable. Shepard lifts the Carnifex but Morinth's faster. She _flows_ , seems to disappear from where she is, reappear behind the cannibal, shooting him back with a flare of biotic energy. The asari shrieks, falling to the floor and backpedaling. Morinth stalks forward, positioning herself before the cannibal, slamming a glistening black boot into its skull. The skull crunches and shatters, the cries immediately dying away.

Shepard sees the look on the asari's face. She knows Morinth. She knows it isn't Samara. Shepard speaks before any damage is done. The last thing she needs is for Liara to find another reason to get on her case. "Nice job, Justicar," Shepard approaches, looks at the obliterated skull on the cannibal. Morinth's power is incredible. What was that trick she did, the way she moved? She previously compared Morinth's biotic strength to her own, considered her an equal. She realizes now that she had it wrong. Morinth is stronger.

Morinth stoops beside the asari, young, perhaps still a maiden. Morinth touches her face carefully before wrapping an arm around her. "Falere. I'm so glad you're all right." Morinth closes her eyes and Shepard sees the genuine relief on her face, the way her body relaxes. In comparison, Falere is tense, her face strained, pulling back against Morinth before surrendering. Shepard flits her eyes between the two women. "Where's your sister?" The asari says nothing. "This is my daughter, Falere," Morinth tells them. "This is Commander Shepard and Liara T'Soni. They're here to help."

"I'm very pleased to meet you," Liara says with a nod. "Can you tell us what's going on? A distress signal originated from here. Asari High Command tells us several commando groups have been dispatched here but none have returned."

"They were here to help, I think. The Reapers," Falere scrambles away from Morinth's arms and gets to her feet. "They're here. They're … using us. Turning us into … into some of those Reaper things. They killed all those commandos who came here."

Samara shakes her head. "Direct combat has always been a weakness of the asari."

"I beg to differ," Liara says. The two exchange looks.

Falere ignores them. "They took Rila. My sister," she grabs Shepard's arm desperately. "Please, you have to help us. You can't let them take her. You can't let them turn her—"

"We won't," Samara says, "you have my word."

Falere looks at Morinth, ignores her, and turns back to Shepard. "Please."

"We'll do what we can," she tells her, a hand on Falere's shoulder. "I'm not sure how much time we have left. Guess we know now why the commandos were dispatched here. The note on that commando," she explains to Liara. Morinth has already grasped her understanding. "They weren't sent here for a rescue. They were sent here to stop the Reapers, to hide the evidence. Shrewd." Impressive.

"Goddess."

Falere pulls back. "There are bombs here?" she looks distrustfully at the group. "If High Command sent you… You're not here to help."

"Falere…" Morinth says. Falere turns and runs, leaping off the balcony, floating down in a nimbus of blue energy. "Falere!" Morinth gives chase.

* * *

The _Normandy_ is within range of the monastery. An asari battleship hovers near. Shepard gave it the green light and James is glad, if not a little disappointed, that it's nothing to worry about. He can't remember the last time he got to see any action. Shepard decided to hit the monastery on her own with only Liara and some justicar as backup. Maybe she loves the blue ladies as much as he does.

Every mission seems to go on for hours when you're not in the thick of it. Now it's a waiting game. There's a bomb. There's always a bomb. But Shepard's a tough bitch. James isn't worried. Maya Brooks doesn't look to share his confidence. She went pale when the battleship was spotted and has said little ever since.

James finds her at her station in the War Room. She quickly closes all the windows on her monitor when she spots him, greeting him with a tired, wan smile. James drops down on the steps next to her. "Hey, if those extranet sites put a smile on your face, don't close them down on my account."

Maya laughs nervously. Her eyes are sharp, keenly intelligent, the sort of thing you spot in hotshot scientists that don't know how to interact with people. That sharpness is always there until she opens her mouth. "Oh! Yes. Sorry. I guess I'm a little distracted. Worried. Please don't tell Command Shepard. I just got onboard and I'd hate for her to throw me off. It's just… it's an Ardat-Yakshi monastery! Scary stuff. I've read about them. They're like vampires! I hope Commander Shepard is okay."

"Don't worry about a thing. She and Blue know how to take care of themselves." Maya's eyes cloud over, darkening. James taps her arm. "Sure that's all that's going on with you?" Maybe it's just as she says and she's worried about sticking around on the _Normand_ y, worried about Commander Shepard. She wouldn't be the first one to develop a crush on the commander and he's sure she won't be the last. "You got your eye on the Commander?"

"Me? What? No." Another nervous laugh, her fingers lacing and unlacing nervously in her lap.

"Why not? She's easy on the eyes. Gets shit done. What's not to like about that?"

"Can't argue there. But I'm no one. I can't think of a single reason Commander Shepard would bother giving me the time of day." She shakes her head, frowning. "I don't know why we're talking about this. I'm not interested in Commander Shepard."

James looks at her. Maya Brooks eyes are rich brown but lack warmth. They're impenetrable, inscrutable. Weird, from the bumbling staff analyst. "If you say so." He shrugs and her shoulders relax, happy for the third degree to be over with. "How's that shoulder of yours? Michel patch you up?"

"Sure did. She even gave me some antibiotics. I guess I had a pretty bad infection. Outside of the scarring, it should recover nicely. I won't be able to use a sniper rifle again—"

"Again?"

She blinks. "Target practice. Always liked it. Pretty good on the range," she says assertively before giving another shake of her head. "But I'm afraid it's shot." Another bark of a laugh, with no hint of humor reaching her eyes. "Get it?" she looks at him. "Shot?"

He gives her a conciliatory smile. "Yeah, I get it." He lifts a hand to touch her but runs his fingers through his close cropped hair instead. "Glad it's healing up, even if it's not as good as you want." They look at one another for a long time, appraising. "You sure you're all right?" Maya stares at her blank screen. "I mean—you're—you keep to yourself but you're all right. Not like some of the wackjobs in engineering. I guess I'm just wondering why you don't branch out. Why you don't have any friends."

She's startled. "I thought we were friends."

"I hoped so." But she's changing the subject, without seeming to change the subject. "You seem tired. Like all the damn time."

"I haven't been a staff analyst for very long. It's a new role. It isn't what I expected. I wasn't expecting to be doing it for this long. It's exhausting to always be 'on.'"

"You'll get the hang of it." He reaches down into his pants pocket and pulls out a deck of cards. "Hey, at least we're not Commander Shepard." He chuckles. "So, how about a game? You, me, Esteban and some briscas?" she looks at him hesitantly. "You gotta get outta here. Being on your own every minute during war time isn't any way to be." He stands and offers a hand. She reluctantly grabs it and he pulls her to her feet. "Vámanos. Hope you have a decent credit line. I'm about to clean you out."

She smiles, the clouds fading from her eyes, the anticipation of a challenge brightening her demeanor. "You're on, Lieutenant."

* * *

The Great Hall is cluttered with explosives and corpses. Shepard makes her way to the head of the room, stepping around and over the charred, mangled corpses. The asari commandos failed their mission but they didn't go down easy. There's the usual assortment of cannibals, marauders and husks among the dead. None of those _banshee_ things, as they've taken to calling the wailing, hideously tall asari creatures fashioned from Ardat-Yakshi students. The two banshees they encountered and killed on the way here dissolved in some sort of dark energy implosion, leaving no discernable remains beyond a dark stain and some ashes.

Falere crouches over the unconscious form of Rila, trying to rouse her. Morinth settles to a stop nearby and watches them impassively, her face inscrutable. Falere cast a wary glance at them as they entered the hall. She's distrustful, barely willing to acknowledge Morinth's presence. Shepard wonders what history led to their present animosity. Falere doesn't seem particularly grateful to be rescued.

The Ardat-Yakshi. The shameful secret of the galaxy's most enlightened species. Genetic undesirables rounded up and stashed away on this third-rate planet, hidden away from the galaxy. Shepard did some extranet research on the way to Lesuss, but found it virtually impossible to separate reality from fiction. She dug up some scary anecdotes, conspiracy theories, government denials and bureaucratic runarounds. She even stumbled upon an entire online subculture fetishizing the condition. There were numerous BDSM websites with dominatrices claiming to possess "the Ardat-Yakshi gene" or "Ardat-Yakshi training." Honestly, if Liara hadn't already confirmed their existence, Shepard would have chalked the whole thing up as just another way for people to get their jollies. Apparently, there's more to it than that.

She wonders what would happen if an Ardat-Yakshi were let loose on the galaxy. A predator that's truly dangerous, unfettered by morality, driven only to feed. Would she just be another monster in a galaxy filled with monsters, the kind that takes what it wants, whenever it wants? Or would she be that special kind of monster, the kind that betrays?

 _"I'm not sentimental. Or… I wasn't. I mean…" Hope shakes her head. "I don't know what I mean. I suppose if it wasn't for sentiment, this wouldn't be so hard." She takes a shaky breath. "Here goes. My first confession. Back on Omega, when the Blue Suns broke into the apartment and attacked you... That was me. I hired them."_

 _Shepard isn't sure she heard correctly. "You... You did what?"_

 _"I hired them. I told them to kill you." Hope's face is anguished. "It was a test. I had to know."_

 _The words hit Shepard with the weight of bricks. She remembers the two mercenaries, a turian and a batarian. They fell upon her when she was recovering from surgery, listening to music. She'd had no training, didn't know how to fight. They almost killed her. Should have killed her. Hope hired them? Shepard shakes her head in disbelief, unable to speak. Just when she was starting to think that maybe she could have something good in her life. She was such a fool. Hope pleads with her. "Grace, please say something! I'm so sorry..." Shepard doesn't realize she's been backing away until she's at the door. She turns and exits, staggering out of the room._

Liara has wandered away. She stands near one of the crate-sized bundles of explosives, examining it. Shepard walks to her and touches her arm. Liara glances at her. "Shepard. The bomb is good to go. We just need to find a way to detonate it."

Somewhere in the distance, a banshee screams. Another soon answers. Shepard can't deny the nerve-jangling effect the sound has. She frowns, looks around. "The detonator must be around here somewhere. Check the commandos." Liara nods and moves to the nearest body.

There's a commotion. Rila has awakened and struggled to her feet. Falere looks upon her face with concern. Rila's eyes go black. She lunges forward and wraps her hands around Falere's throat. Alarmed, Shepard steps toward them, but Morinth bars her way with an outstretched arm. "No, Shepard. They are my responsibility."

Shepard scowls. Morinth claims responsibility, but makes no attempt to intervene? Thankfully, the struggle is brief. Falere breaks the hold and repels Rila with a gentle push. Rila staggers back weakly, stumbling, the darkness fading from her eyes.

"Rila!" Falere cries, rushing to her again, bracing her. "What's wrong with her?" she says, turning to Shepard and Morinth.

It is Samara who answers. "She has begun the transformation into one of the Reapers' creatures."

"No!" Falere protests. "I don't believe you! How can you know that?"

"I have felt the contamination in her," comes the cool, even voice of the justicar. "I am sorry. What has been done to her cannot be undone." She pauses for a moment, cocking her head. "Guard your sister, Falere." She turns to Shepard. "It's time to fight, Commander."

An instant later, Liara shouts from across the room. "Shepard!"

Shepard whirls. A banshee has arrived, teleporting past a wall. It leans forward, long arms stretched behind it, and emits a heart-stopping shriek. Behind it, another banshee appears, and a horde of husks lope into the room.

Liara plucks an Acolyte pistol from the floor and fires off a single shot at the first banshee. The creature jumps forward in that way that it does and swats Liara aside. The asari scientist hurls through the air, collides with a curved column and collapses to the floor in an unmoving heap.

Shepard stares in shock. _No, no, Liara!_ She wants to hurl herself forward, to Liara's side, danger be damned.

"Not yet," Morinth says, as if reading her mind. "We must first attend to the threat, if we are to survive."

Shepard's done the math, seen the angles. She knows Morinth is right. _Goddammit_. She quickly checks Liara's vitals through the feed from the _Normandy_. She's alive, and the creatures are leaving her alone for now. That will have to be enough. She conjures up a singularity in the center of the hall, ensnaring several husks. A moment later, Morinth casually detonates it with a biotic throw, instantly disintegrating the husks. There are more, but they are inconsequential, easily dealt with. The second banshee shrieks. Shepard pulls the Eviscerator from her back, pumps it, turns to Morinth. "You shut the second one up. I'll take the first one."

Morinth smiles, Vindicator in hand. She's herself now, not Samara. "As you like, Shepard."

 _Pop pop pop_ the banshees jump forward, gobbling up five meters at a time as they advance across the hall. Shepard primes her banshee with a warp field, then closes the distance with a biotic charge. The _WHUMP!_ of the resulting biotic detonation sends more husks flying. Nine feet tall and wreathed in a crackling purple-blue storm of dark energy, the banshee barely seems to register the collision. It looks down at Shepard and swipes at her. Shepard rolls out of the way, tumbling into a kneeling position and firing the Eviscerator at its face. She stands, retreats, rolls out of the way again when the banshee hurls an enormous warp ball at her. Shepard volleys with another warp of her own, _BLAM! BLAM!_ pumps the shotgun, follows with a biotic throw to detonate the warp, _WHUMP!_ No more husks. The banshee shrieks in defiance and lumbers toward her. It's far from done. At any moment, it will regain its strength and start teleporting again.

Shepard spares a glance behind her. The second banshee has shot past Morinth and made a beeline for the sisters. It's nearly to the spot where Falere shelters herself and Rila with a barrier dome. Pitiful protection against that thing. Morinth gives chase, _flowing_ past the banshee at the very last, positioning herself between it and Falere. It's the second time Shepard has seen Morinth use that ability, a biotic feat she hadn't even known was possible before today. Morinth rises into the air, cloaked in biotic might, eyes darkening, until she is at eye level with the banshee. The banshee freezes, heaving and swaying in place, seemingly mesmerized. What in the bleeding hell is Morinth doing?

Almost too late, Shepard remembers her own danger. Having jumped forward, the banshee reaches out to wrap its impossibly long dagger-like fingers around her. Shit. If this fucking thing manages to grab her, it's all over. She extends her arm and pushes off from the banshee's hand. Enormously strong talons clutch at her, digging into her side, gouging body armor and flesh. Bleeding, she manages to squirm free. Shepard grits her teeth against the pain. _Fucking careless idiot! Who's going to stop the Reapers if you die here today?_ With pain comes adrenaline and focus. She proceeds to systematically whittle down the banshee, finally dropping it with one last, spiteful shotgun blast to the face.

She turns to Morinth, who seems to be engaged in some sort of psychic duel with the other banshee. Morinth's face is a stony mask of determination, beaded with sweat. The banshee remains transfixed, captive to Morinth's gaze. Amazingly, it has started to quiver and shake. Suddenly one of its arms bends wrongly and breaks with a sickening crunch. From there, it ends quickly and grotesquely. The banshee's entire body starts to contort and collapse, limbs snapping, neck slowly twisting. As it folds in on itself, it gives one last shriek, different-sounding and somehow more terrifying, like the scream of a dying, tormented animal. Finally, it falls to the floor and dissolves like all the others, leaving only a stain.

Morinth lowers herself to the ground and turns to Falere and Rila, the blackness receding from her eyes. She extends both hands to them. "You are safe now. Come with me." The soothing voice of the justicar.

Rila seems sad. She holds Falere's hand and stares at the ground. Falere glares at Morinth with a mixture of horror and anger. "Stop pretending, Mirala. I know you're not her!"

Morinth blinks. "This is neither the time nor the place, Falere. We must leave at once."

"We're not going anywhere with you until you tell us what happened to Mother! Did— Did you kill her?"

More banshees scream in the distance.

"No," Morinth sighs wearily. "I did not. _Mother_ ," she practically spits the word, "is dead, but not by my hand. If it gives you comfort, know that she died a warrior's death, fighting a great injustice, and that Commander Shepard avenged her death. I have been helping her ever since, as Mother did."

Falere looks to Shepard. "Is this true?"

"Yes." It's true. Sort of. As far as she knows. Morinth intimated to her that the original Shepard murdered Samara. She believes it but maybe that's just because it's easy to believe. Morinth has only ever helped her. Mirala. Whoever. Why do the people in her life have so many names, so many secrets? It's exhausting. "Straighten out your personal shit later. I'm going to get Liara, then we're going to find that detonator and get the hell out of here."

The banshee screams are louder and more numerous than before, starting to overlap. They're moments away, closing in.

"I have the detonator," Rila says, producing the small cylindrical device from a pouch. "Go. Take the elevator. Leave!"

"No!" Falere exclaims, alarmed. "What are you doing, Rila?"

Rila squeezes Falere's hand before releasing it. "It's too late for me. Go now. They're almost here. There's too many to fight." She looks at Morinth. "You know I'm right."

Morinth returns her gaze for a moment, then gives a slight smile and a nod. She grabs Falere around the waist and pulls her away. "Rila!" Falere screams, thrashing to no avail as Morinth drags her across the room.

"I love you," Rila says with a beatific smile. She flips open the detonator, revealing the dead man's switch. With a nod to Shepard, she presses her thumb down and holds it.

Shepard turns and runs to Liara, barely breaking stride as she scoops the unconscious woman up off the ground. She meets Morinth and Falere in the elevator. The first of the banshees pop into view as the doors close. The silence of the elevator ride is broken only by Falere's sobbing.

* * *

Rasa waits outside of Shepard's cabin. There are very few locations on the _Normandy_ where they can speak and act openly, places where EDI's eyes and ears have been expressly forbidden from prying. One such place is her quarters on the lower deck. The other is Shepard's cabin. She isn't sure that Grace will talk to her, but she intends to try. Was she wrong to confess her sins, to lay bare her soul? She doesn't know where the impulse came from. Maybe she should have just kept her mouth shut, swallowed the selfish need to unburden her conscience. This is new territory. She's never thought of herself as someone who had a conscience.

Shepard and Liara returned from the monastery nearly an hour ago and headed straight to the med-bay. She wasn't able to catch them as they boarded, but word quickly spread that Shepard had come back with some nasty scratches. She thinks she heard that Liara got a bump on the head or something, but she couldn't care less. She wishes Grace cared less.

She hears the elevator moving up and her heart beats faster. The doors slide open and Shepard steps out, arms cradling the pieces of her hardsuit, gouged and spattered with blood. Her shirt is bloody and shredded. Rasa can see angry welts on her torso, where flesh has knitted itself back together with the aid of medi-gel. _Those are going to leave scars_. Grace sees Rasa and stops, her face expressionless, eyes hazel. Rasa thinks she'd prefer to see anger in that face, the spark of green in those eyes. She stands in front of the door, blocking Shepard's path. "Commander! I'm so glad you're okay! I wonder if I might have a word with you in your quarters?"

"No," Grace states flatly. "There's somewhere I need to be."

 _Where? The Night Winds? Shit._ "But this is urgent, Commander. I promise it will be worth your time." Her eyes plead. _Please, Grace. Please_.

Grace is unmoved, implacable. "I think you've taken up more than enough of my time, Staff Analyst. There's nothing left for you to say to me that could possibly be of any value." She steps forward, her posture becoming threatening. "Excuse yourself. Now."

 _Damn it Grace!_ She glares back at her for a moment, but steps aside, leaning into her ear to whisper. "Don't trust the justicar. She isn't Samara. Her name is—"

"Morinth?" There's a smug half-smile on her face.

Rasa is taken aback. "You know?"

Grace steps forward, the door sliding open for her. She stops, glances over her shoulder. "Haven't you realized? I don't need you anymore." She turns away and walks into the cabin. "You're dismissed." The door hisses shut behind her.

* * *

Morinth swims between irritation and grief. Rila is dead. Her sister. Her daughter. The stupid woman who wasted her life doing her sacred duty. What use is nobility anyway? Falere's sobbing has mercifully ceased. She has been reduced to sniffling and wiping an endless stream of tears from her eyes. Morinth wants to wipe those tears away, wants to slap her. She has always enjoyed the richness of the black void. Now she finds herself lost in the grey.

Falere should be happy. No longer will she have to live her life in a monastery, cursed and imprisoned simply for being born. _Do you know Mother only thought of us as a disease to be purged?_ She wants to tell Falere that as she mourns and weeps for the dead. Or perhaps, her mother only saved those loving words for her. Bitch. Dead bitch.

"I shouldn't be here," Falere hiccups the words. Morinth looks at her impassively. "Mother would not want this. I took an oath."

"Mother," Morinth slides onto the couch beside her, "would prefer you be dead than free. Why stay there? So the Reapers can take your gifts and use them against the galaxy _?_ So they can turn you into one of those things? _"_

"Maybe that would be better."

"Don't be stupid. What did they do to you at that monastery?" How did they make her so weak? "I won't allow you to stay there. You'll thank me in time." She takes a deep breath, smiling, touching her arm. Falere recoils. What poison did their mother fill Falere's head with? "Mother and Rila are gone but we still have each other." Falere doesn't look at her. She takes her face, Falere's tears surprisingly hot. Morinth smiles. "We shouldn't squander this." Does she hate her for being free?

Falere yanks away once more. "Shepard may trust you," she hisses, "but why are you dressed like Mother?" She shoves Morinth back. " _Why,_ Mirala, if you had nothing to do with it? I _know_ how you hated her."

Morinth's jaw is tightly clenched, the smile on her lips difficult to bear. "All I have ever given you is love. All I have ever wanted for you was freedom. I wrote to you often, you know. You never wrote back but I never stopped. You're important to me. You're my sister." Falere stands, going to the window to look to the night sky. "You have no idea what's out there. I'm working with Commander Shepard to stop this madness. After we've stopped the Reapers, I want to show you everything that's out there. It's a beautiful world, full of adventure and possibility. You have every right to enjoy it."

"Enjoy it? The way you have?"

It's not always enjoyable. There was the old Shepard. Morinth once tried touching her mind but couldn't. She tasted… like plastic. Battery acid. The banshee earlier was the same. Worse. Strange that something synthetic could taste so organic, like rot and hunger, like heartbreak and despair. And yet the contact has stirred something within Morinth. She's famished. It has been too long. "I don't know what Mother's told you—whatever it was, I'm sure it was an exaggeration," she stands, puts her hands on Falere's shoulders, rigid and tense beneath her fingertips. "I don't expect you to believe me. But I hope that in time you'll… come to trust me. Mother and I may not have gotten along but it doesn't mean I don't mourn her death."

"You hurt her so much."

"She hurt me."

The door to the cabin slides open and Shepard enters. "Is this a bad time?"

Falere answers before Morinth can. "No. No. I was just getting ready to retire for the evening. I am very tired." Shepard looks at her sympathetically. Morinth wonders if she means it, how much of it is an act. How much of that other Shepard, was the real Shepard? How much of this one is a fraud? Morinth doesn't know. They both fascinate her. The weaker Shepard is dead. The one who survives makes the reality.

"I can escort you to your quarters," Morinth offers.

"No. I'll find my way. I need to be alone."

Falere moves past Shepard who watches her go until the door slides shut behind her. Shepard no longer wears her hardsuit. She delivered Liara to the _Normandy,_ making sure she got onboard all right after the banshee swatted her aside as if she were nothing. Liara is her weakness, just as she was the weakness of the other Shepard. What power Liara must hold, to have the savior of the galaxy wrapped around her little pureblood finger. A small trill of excitement moves over Morinth. She resumes her spot on the couch, patting it for Shepard to join her.

Shepard does, watching her curiously. "Are you okay?" Morinth stares back at her. "First your mother, now your sister. That's a lot to lose."

Morinth stretches an arm along the back of the couch. "I'm more worried about Falere. She's the youngest. She revered Mother and was closest with Rila. She was practically an infant—by asari standards—when they locked her away. I can't imagine a caged life."

"I guess you got lucky."

It's the second time Shepard has commented as much. Morinth isn't sure how ironic the sentiment is. "I made my own luck, Shepard. Sometimes all you can have is what you're willing to take." She eases closer. Shepard notices but doesn't react. "How's your little asari?"

"Don't call her that." There's a beat. "Why did Falere call you Mirala?"

"It was my name."

"Not Morinth?"

"What about you, Grace?" Shepard frowns and Morinth smiles. "We are what we choose. I've made my choices, so have you. You made your choice Shepard, when you went after that woman on Tuchanka. You took what you wanted. I don't question it. I won't. I understand you. I won't ask 'why.' Sometimes there's no answer to 'why.' Sometimes things just _are_." Morinth slides closer again and this time Shepard's body tenses a fraction. "Are you happy with the decision you've made?"

Morinth had not anticipated asking the question, did not know she was even curious and still, it slipped away from her and she finds herself craving the answer. Does Shepard get tired of pretending? Is it pretending? Has she evolved? Has the metamorphosis happened? "The choice was made for me." She frowns. "No one's ever asked."

"I sense you're troubled."

"How?"

"We're friends, Shepard. Friends pick up on things." She touches a hand to Shepard's sternum, feeling the shape of her bones beneath, imagining the flesh and muscle covering them, imagining crushing them, worshipping them. "You don't have to pretend for me. I accept you for who you are. Whatever you are." She eases her fingers along the curve of Shepard's jaw, catching fine strands of brown hair and tucking them behind her ear. Shepard's pupils dilate. "Did you want me to tell you what Miranda and Liara have planned for you?" In a way, despite her anticipation, her glee, the way she wants to see her face crack, Morinth has reservations. Words, facts, betrayals are weapons. She does not want to injure Shepard but she must know the truth. The truth that is an insult, that makes Morinth dance, that makes her want to throw her head back and laugh, the truth that Miranda foolishly entrusted to her, knowing of her 'distaste' for the woman that was Shepard.

"Tell me."

Morinth licks her lips. "Miranda and Liara want to implant you with a control chip. Miranda asked me to help," she says the last in Samara's voice, smiling ruefully. "She came to me after you denied her request to join the _Normandy_." Shepard goes very still, not even breathing. "It sounds crazy doesn't it? But she brought you back from the dead so I guess nothing's impossible." Shepard's dumbfounded, panicked, questioning. "They believe you are too much of a risk. With the Reapers loose on the universe and you… being what you are…"

"Miranda knows who I am?"

"She knows you are Grace, yes. I do not know how she knows—but she knows." That part's made up – Miranda made no mention of clones – but it makes the story more fun. Anyway, Morinth doubts Miranda would let that little detail stop any plans. Shepard is silent, her eyes thoughtful before she pulses. Biotic energy slithers out of her, thick, choking and dangerous, her jaw tight, her eyes cyan. "After everything you did for her, you are still only a thing."

"Why are you telling me this?"

 _I wanted to hurt you. I thought you should know. Miranda's a bitch. Because it's funny. Because it's the truth. Because you're in danger. Because chaos is everything._ The thoughts buzz around her head, all true and confounding. "I don't know." That seems like the most honest answer. "I don't want you with a chip in your brain. Control is exciting—but only if we're the one to choose it. I wanted you to keep your guard up." Hunger snarls inside her as she says the words. It has been long since she fed and Shepard's power, hot and angry, washes over her and the room like an aphrodisiac. "I want to protect you from people like them."

"Them?"

"The Liaras and the Mirandas, the ones who need control, crave it. Like my mother. She killed for it. She destroyed anyone who stepped outside its bounds," her voice is hoarse, her breath short. "People like us cannot be caged. We should not be robbed of our potential, simply because others are afraid. We should take what we want," her fingers curl against Shepard's chest, her throat is raw and dry, "we should take what…"

Shepard stares at her, transfixed. "Your eyes…" she winces as if developing a migraine. "My head…"

Shepard's pulling away from her. Morinth grabs a fistful of her shirt. No. No. She cannot leave. _Let her leave_. No. She needs her. _You don't need, Shepard._ Let her go. "Look into my eyes and tell me you want me." Shepard breathes hard, her face pale, sweating. Morinth wants that more than anything. She wants Shepard to kneel, to beg for eternity. Morinth wants to give her the promise and crush it beneath her heel. Desire and an aching, corrosive hunger move over her. "Tell me you'd kill for me." Now she's breathless, "Anything I want."

"What are you doing?" The words are slow and painful. She takes Morinth's wrist but Morinth holds on tighter. No. She must have this. She must have her. She's resisting. That's good. She can get away. _She can think she's gotten away_. She'll be better than Shepard. She'll make Morinth something more. She'll make her unstoppable. She'll make her a god. Morinth can feel her. Taste her. The white rage. The hurt. Rasa. Liara. Miranda. Her. It grows so hot and piercing that her own head aches. "What are you doing?" Shepard shoves her away and scrambles back on the couch.

Morinth growls, eyes black. No. No. No. Stop. No. _I need this._ She's on the floor, catlike. She springs. Shepard rolls to the side as Morinth slams a hand laced with biotic power onto the floor. The coffee table flips over and Shepard kicks Morinth's legs out from under her, rises like a dark force, is suffused with biotic power, approaching when Morinth flings her back, slamming her into the wall with such violence that Shepard crumples with a soft grunt. Morinth's eyes widen. There's quiet and stillness. It seems to stretch forever. Shepard slowly forces herself to her feet, wiping the blood from her nose and mouth.

They must both look so surprised. Morinth doesn't breathe. She tries to say her name but she can't.

"You're one of them," Shepard looks at the blood on her hands, around the room at her, eyes cold and hurt. "You're a fucking Ardat-Yakshi."

Morinth curls her fingers and swallows. Shepard breathes. Her hand falls to the holster at her side. Morinth straightens. "Yes. I'm _one of them_. A _fucking Ardat-Yakshi_. Are you going to kill me, Shepard? Are you sorry I escaped before they could kill me? That's the choice, you know. Live in seclusion or die." Shepard's fingers hover over the Carnifex, as if it were a duel, only Morinth has no weapon. _I don't need a weapon_.

" _Why?_ Is this why you run around pretending to be your mother? You do it because it's easy? _"_

"None of this is _easy_." Not in the beginning. "Is it _easy_ to be Commander Shepard?" It's easy to kill. It's an addiction. An insatiable, uncontrollable addiction. Even now, despite the disgust washing over her, a disgust she's never felt before, she still yearns for her, wants to feast, suck her dry, to the marrow. No. She wants her friendship. Friendship? Pathetic. No. She wants to kill her. No. Fuck her. No. Kill her. Meld in every way, make her scream, good, bad, rasp until she's empty. Ingest her until they're one. "I didn't ask to be born like this, any more than you did. This is who I am, whether I like it or not." She's always liked it. Now she questions it. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You wanted to kill me."

No. Yes. No. Yes. "I'm sorry." She's never had a friend. Shepard would come closest. She's never wanted a friend. Even now she must fight through the hunger, even now she has to keep herself from throwing herself at Shepard. She imagines her hand on her chest earlier, it would have been easy to reach inside and snatch her beating heart from her, crushed it in her fingertips, stolen her mind. She salivates thinking about it. She wants to feed.

"Why did you bring me here? Why did you ask me to come?"

"You know why."

"I don't. Was it this?" Morinth shakes her head. No. It wasn't. "The stuff about Miranda and Liara—"

"All true. I wouldn't make that up. I wanted to tell you. I want you to be okay. I wanted you to know you couldn't trust them. But you can trust me."

"Trust you?" Shepard narrows her eyes and lifts an arm, a shockwave flinging the couch they were sitting on at Morinth, who sidesteps it easily, even as it smashes into the glass, cracking the window. "Stay the fuck away from me." She exits.

Morinth paces the room, her anger mounting, her disappointment, her hunger. She lets out a frustrated scream, a biotic burst sending everything in the room blasting back into the walls.

* * *

Liara exhales softly, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. Michel attended to her but her head throbs; her thoughts swim against a current. The blast shook the walls of the monastery but Shepard held tightly to her when waves of dizziness made Liara incapable of standing. Shepard brought her into the _Normandy_ and insisted Michel see to her first, even as the blood flowed freely from her side, her hardsuit shredded. Her concern was… That woman isn't Shepard. But…

Something is bothering her. Liara reasons its instinct to want to see to Shepard. That same instinct that prompted her to recover Shepard's body despite the impossible odds. Liara gave her to the enemy in hopes Shepard would be resurrected. She would have done anything. She has rejected the woman masquerading as Shepard. Plans are in motion. It's for the best. She cannot afford to be sentimental. _Are you all right?_ Shepard's fingers tentatively skirting over her face in the med-bay before Michel moved her out of the way.

Brooks has been antsy since Shepard returned to the _Night Winds_. Liara has been much the same for weeks now. Shepard and Maya Brooks are… familiar. Someone like Shepard doesn't notice someone like Maya Brooks. The woman may be attractive but she's a bumbling idiot. And Brooks' history, the little of it Liara has managed to piece together is jumbled. Liara can't put her finger on it but it unnerves her. It's stupid. She isn't jealous. How could she be? Yet… when her mind is idle her imagination goes there. Her stomach knots and her throat dries. It is far too easy to imagine. She could confront Shepard but what would be the point? Shepard would only smirk and ask why she cared. Liara would not be able to answer.

"Dr. T'Soni, Commander Shepard has returned," Glyph tells her.

"Thank you." Liara pushes herself off the bed, powering Glyph down as she moves past him. She instructed him to alert her of Shepard's presence but does not want him rambling in that incessant way to her. Liara feels a compulsion to speak to Shepard and would prefer not to be interrupted.

She times it well, pressing the elevator button in time for the doors to open on her floor. The _Normandy_ is dark save for the light that seeps out of the elevator. Shepard's bleeding. Her nose and mouth, the side of her shirt soaked through again. "What happened?" she reaches for her but Shepard avoids her touch. It wasn't more than a few hours ago that her fingers had grazed along her skin so carefully. "Weren't you with Samara?" Shepard stares back at her. "Did something happen?" Of course something happened. But what?

"Step out of the elevator, T'Soni."

"I won't."

Shepard walks out of the elevator, a hand cradling her injured side. It's the wound from earlier, the banshee's work. It's reopened despite the application of medi-gel. How did it happen unless Shepard was in a fight? Shepard takes the stairs up to CIC and Liara, still unsteady on her legs, follows after her. "I wanted to thank you for what you did earlier," Liara calls after her. Shepard doesn't slow though she doesn't move quickly. "I shouldn't have let that banshee catch me off guard."

Shepard scoffs. "You're not the only one to be caught off guard." She steps into the elevator and once again, Liara follows in after her. "What do you want?" The words are venom. Liara blinks as the elevator doors close. Shepard's eyes are magma. They're halfway to the cabin when Shepard slams a fist into the emergency stop. It leaves a smear of blood on the button. "I know what you and Miranda are planning for me."

Liara stills. "I don't know what you mean."

"The control chip?" Liara looks at her. She can't swallow. Heat rushes to her face. Shame. Yes. She agreed to the plan. Some part of her still agrees. Or does it? If it shames her so, makes her so guilty, can she truly agree? "So it is true." How did she know…? How can she know? Didn't Miranda agree that no one else must know? Her heart is beating so fast she feels nauseous. "And I suppose you're the one who told her I'm Grace."

"Grace?" She can barely say the word. Grace? Is that a name? Her name? Liara didn't know it. But yes. She did tell Miranda that this Shepard was the clone, even after promising she wouldn't. It had seemed necessary at the time. It was necessary for her self-preservation.

"I'm not even a person to you people. I'm just a thing." Shepard's eyes are blue, bright, piercing, as cutting as her voice. Part of Liara is terrified, another piece is enthralled. Jane's eyes. "I can't believe this is who you've become." Flat. Contemplative. "How did you get this way? I don't remember a woman who could have agreed to this. All I have of us is our memories. What we were on the original _Normandy_. It's not enough for you. You're satisfied, brain fucking me, for what that other Shepard did." She steps closer. "Do you know what I've had to go through since I came back? The things..." Her voice breaks, her eyes unfocused. For an instant, Liara wonders if she'll take her arm like Jane did, if she'll leave her bruised, her skin torn. "I won't let you. I won't let her. Call this plan of yours off. If you even _think_ of following through I'll kick you off this ship. If Miranda breathes wrong, comes sniffing around this ship without my say so— I'll rip her fucking head off."

Shepard's anger has a life of its own. It fills the elevator like dark energy. Beneath all of it is hurt. Liara is sorry for it. So sorry for it. She was wrong. How does she say it? How can she make her believe it? Why should she believe it? She needs to try. She needs to speak. "Shepard…" she tries to gather her vocabulary.

Shepard slams the emergency override button. "Fuck off." Simple words and contemptuous enough to take the breath for Liara's lungs. "Whatever lie you want to spin, I don't want to hear it. I have enough shit to deal with. You've made your position perfectly clear."

She looks like she's going to cry. She doesn't. The elevator doors open and Shepard limps out, moving towards her room, Alliance shirt wet with blood. Liara remembers finding her when her insides were out, when she was torn open and still. She squeezes her eyes shut. Goddess. What has she done?


	32. Tension

_Shepard,_

 _I'm not happy with how things went down on the Night Winds. After what's happened I'm sure you have no reason to trust me. I'm sorry for what happened but I'm not sorry for who I am. The truth is that I'm always hungry. People always question hunger. It's why the world rejects my kind and why Mother tried to kill me before … you got the better of her. Everyone has addictions, Shepard. Mine pack more punch. I still consider you a friend—the only one I've ever had—and if you need me, I have your back. I'm sure you have your doubts but I have more self-control than you know. Everyone has lapses. If I'm honest, I can say I've wanted you for a while. Your power on my tongue, filling me, would be ambrosia. What a high. You resisted me. I wonder if you could survive a melding. If anyone could do it, it'd be you. You have no idea how powerful you are. Together we could make the galaxy tremble._

 _Yours,_

 _Morinth_

Shepard reads the message several times. Part of her wants to trust Morinth. She really is an idiot. Morinth has saved her time and time again. In the end she tried to feed but can she blame Morinth for her nature? At least attempting to kill her was honest. It wasn't a control chip. It wasn't an assassination attempt.

She exits the message and scrolls through Shepard's older emails. Emails of gratitude, emails from Admiral Xen, emails from Aria T'Loak requesting a meeting. Shepard does an extranet search for the woman. The ousted Pirate Queen of Omega currently spending her days at the Purgatory club on the Citadel. Her eyes may be a brighter blue than Liara's. Shepard frowns thinking of her.

 _{ Commander. You have a transmission from Admiral Anderson in the War Room. }_

Shepard looks up at the camera. She should have stayed on Earth. "I'm on my way, EDI." She takes the elevator to the War Room, moving past Campbell and Westmoreland who had recently seemed less terrified of her and currently appear more skittish. She ignores their salutes. She ignores James Vega, his hulking form situated next to Brooks' station. They turn to her. James waves. Shepard nods stiffly, her body tensing, forcing herself to keep moving, ignoring Brooks' attempt to meet her eyes.

She sees Anderson's holographic form on the QEC and waits for the doors to close behind her before stepping tentatively closer.

Anderson adjusts his stance as if to better look at her. "Shepard, it's been too damned long."

There isn't a night she goes to sleep when she doesn't think of the man. He'd been more of a father to her than her actual father. _You don't have a father, remember?_ The thought is like a kick to the gut. _Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Focus._ "Glad to see you're still hanging in there, Admiral."

"Why the hell wouldn't I be? I may not be as young as you, but I'm still a tough bastard."

"You're damn right." She grins. "How are things in your neck of the woods, Sir?"

"Not good. You saw what happened to Earth. Things were better for a while—had a bit of a scrapper on our hands but she took off. We've been doing the best we can to hold the Reaper forces back but shit. You know how it is. You've got a lot of people counting on you. No pressure."

Shepard smiles thinly. "Calling to check up on me, I see."

Anderson chuckles. "Some habits die hard. Hackett's been keeping me briefed on our progress. The Crucible is going nicely and you've been slowing Cerberus down. I gotta tell you, I'm relieved. But we still have the Reapers to contend with. I'm not content betting the galaxy's existence on an old Prothean blueprint."

"Neither am I, Sir. I've got Miranda Lawson," the bitch, "looking into some other avenues."

"Hackett mentioned she and a Specialist Traynor are doing some work on the Citadel? Anything you're willing to share?"

"Not until I have something more concrete. I'd hate to get your hopes up for nothing."

"Too late for that." He smiles tiredly. "Listen, there was a reason I asked to be patched through. I have a place on the Citadel. Damned nice place. Heard from Kahlee the other day. She told me what happened at Grissom Academy. Why the hell didn't you mention you'd stopped by?"

Shepard's lips part. She spoke to Jack about keeping her mouth shut but hadn't thought to tell Kahlee the same. What could she have said? To not make mention of it to her commanding officer? Shit. "Must have slipped my mind."

"You all right, kid?" Anderson cocks his head. "Pretty dark in there—but it's not hard to see you look like shit, if you don't mind my saying so."

Shepard barks laughter. Is she all right? Hope revealed she'd sent assassins after her while she was in the midst of recovering from a debilitating operation. Liara and Miranda were conspiring to put a control chip in her head and Morinth tried to suck her dry. She touches her dog tags absently. "I've had better days."

He studies her. "This war's hard on all of us. But we're not done yet." She nods sternly. "Which makes damned good timing for this call. That place I mentioned—It's on the Silversun Strip. I want you to take it. If anyone could use some R&R, it's you. You don't get some down time you start screwing up. We got a lot riding on you, Shepard. I know you can be a stubborn pain in the ass but I'm not entertaining any answer that isn't 'Sir, yes Sir.'"

"Sir, yes Sir." Shepard smiles. She's missed him. He looks worse for wear, thinner, with bags under his eyes. His fatigues are stained with guts and blood. Guilt needles her. Leaving Earth was the right thing to do. She had to stop that other Shepard. She had to stop Cerberus. It doesn't make her feel any better. Anderson turns his head and soon Shepard hears a bark. A dog's tail wags and soon her old Malamute, the one she shared with Ben comes onscreen. "Max!" She leans forward, her hand touching the rails, wishing she could reach out and touch him. "Hey, boy—" she goes white.

Anderson eyes her cautiously. Max barks at the sound of her voice. A cold sweat washes over Shepard. She can't say anything. Her fingers fumble with the console and she cuts the call. For minutes she can't move, can't think. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_. She wipes the sweat from her face. Ten minutes pass and her omni-tool pings.

 _Damned QEC is acting up. Guess that's what taking all those hits will do to our communications. We've got a lot of catching up to do, after this damned war's over. Max is the unofficial mascot of our base. You should see the way the soldiers fight to feed him his biscuits. Pretty sure he's the only one getting fat around these parts. Don't forget to pick up the keys for the apartment. I've enclosed the address._

 _Anderson_

Shepard covers her mouth and closes her eyes, the breath slowly returning to her.

* * *

There's a slow hum in the shuttle bay. Shepard focuses on the sound, how it reverberates and stretches, moving through the bay in slow ripples. Her fingers skim over the weapons bench, the various upgrades available to the Carnifex. She once missed the Paladin but isn't sure she does anymore. It represented some attachment to Grace Morgan that she no longer believes exists. Every piece of her existence has been founded on lies. She sees Jane Shepard in her dreams, blowing her brains out, and wakes shaking.

"You all right, Commander?" She turns to Cortez, working on the requisitions terminal. "You look pretty tired. I hope I'm not out of line—but maybe you could use some shore leave. We've been hitting Cerberus and the Reapers hard for months."

First Anderson and now Cortez. "Says the man who never leaves the shuttle bay." Shepard picks up the Carnifex and slams a thermal clip into it. The weight is comforting when everything else feels as if it is evanescing.

"Lola's got you there, Esteban," James huffs, doing another chin-up. Shepard watches him, pulling himself up slowly, deliberately lowering without so much as breaking a sweat. He's a fortress of muscle. She's rarely seen men that big. "Maybe what Lola needs is a good dance."

"Another euphemism, Mr. Vega? You forget she's your commanding officer? It's your funeral."

Shepard screws the biotic amplifier onto the Carnifex. "I'm not much for dancing," she tells James.

He laughs. "Hey, you and me did all right last time, right?" He drops from the pull-up bar, taking a swig from the water bottle and approaching. Shepard has no idea what he's talking about. Dancing? Did they go dancing? Jesus, was Shepard involved with him, too? It seems doubtful but she isn't sure of what she knows anymore. "Come on," he feints in place, taking a few practice swings. Oh. That kind of dancing. "You're wound up tight. It'll be good for you. Anyway, uh—I was hoping I could get some advice."

"You're not going to give this up, are you?"

"Nunca." He grins when Shepard steps away from the weapons bench, half jogging backward. Shepard's arms and legs feel like rusted machinery. Maybe she could use some relief but she isn't sure this isn't going to end with her ass knocked to the floor. She rolls her shoulders and neck and takes a breath. The elevator doors open behind them and they turn to look. Brooks steps out, spots them. There's a moment of hesitation. She lingers back. "Speak of the devil," James mutters. "Sup, Butter? You came at a good time. Lola and I are about to do some dancing!"

"Butter?" Shepard looks at him.

"You know me and the nicknames."

"Why that one?"

He chuckles. "Isn't it obvious? Cause she's so smooth." She frowns. He shoves her playfully and she stumbles back. "You gotta wake up, Lola. Man, you are all knots. Todo bien?"

She knows enough Spanish to understand that. "Yes. What did you want?"

"Damn. Straight to business. So look," he lowers his voice, "I'm not sure what you think of fraternization." She doesn't know if he's coming on to her or has a suspicion about her and Brooks. "But—I'm kind of thinking… there's a spark with me and Staff Analyst Brooks. I mean, I don't usually let myself get involved in that kind of thing. It's a bad idea. But I don't know, with the Reaper War going on… maybe it's our last chance."

Her body goes tighter than before, as if all her muscles were being wound, making her smaller, more constricted. "Is there a question in there, Lieutenant?"

He blinks, startled. "I – uh. Well, I guess maybe I thought she had a crush on you?" She stares back at him. "Who wouldn't right? You're the fucking hero of the galaxy," he grins, proud. "And you are _fine_. So uh—if you're into her I'll back off—or—"

"Lieutenant, whatever Staff Analyst Brooks does is her concern. She is not property. You do not come and speak to me as if we were salarians arranging a fucking mating contract." His eyes flash, hurt, taken aback. She closes her eyes. _Breathe_. She slaps his arm, in what she hopes comes across as a playful manner. "I barely know her name. Do whatever you want."

James glances back at Brooks. "The name's Maya Brooks." Poor bastard. Shepard feels sorry for him. Hope Lilium, Rasa, Maya Brooks, Sasha, is a beautiful, infectious disease that makes you believe you are loved and cared for. It's all lies. Truthfully, she has been debating kicking her off the Normandy. She has outlived her purpose. However, she doesn't trust her and it may be better to keep her and all her secrets close. "I think she's lonely."

Maya Brooks, lonely, the woman who taught her to be a lone wolf, to rely and trust no one. Huh. Maybe she did teach her one true thing. Maybe that is the only thing she should keep from their time together. "Maybe she likes it that way."

"No one likes being lonely."

A spark, he said. She wonders what she could possibly want from James Vega. Hope never turns on the charm unless she's looking to get something. He's the newest member of the squad, young and brash with average intelligence and no valuable connections. Still, his shirt clings to his chiseled chest, his scarred, scruffy face is attractive. Oh. There may be that. "I take it we're done here."

Another smile. How can he smile so often. Can anyone be that happy? What does that sort of happiness take? Ignorance? Stupidity? "Don't forget our dance, Lola." He lifts his arms. A heat flares in Shepard's chest. "Come on, let's go for round two."

"I don't even remember round one."

"Used to knocking that many guys down?" He takes a swing, his fist half the size of her head, arm stretched out, muscles defined. She sidesteps it easily. "Get those arms up, Lola."

"Maybe she wants to have you court-martialed," Cortez volunteers, he and Brooks move closer.

The warmth spreads through Shepard, the blood moving gradually through her veins until some flexibility returns to her. She lifts her arms. James jabs and she feints, another two quick ones and she blocks them with her arms. A flare of pain begins where he hit, followed immediately by a dull throbbing.

"Forgotten how to throw a punch?" James asks. "Or are you worried about damaging this beautiful face of mine?"

Cortez laughs. "Come on Commander, just kick his ass already. Or let it go until his head gets big enough that it blows."

"Cono, lambe culo," James dances in place. "What about you, Butter? You've got my back right? Esteban's a sellout, I need someone on my side."

"Oh." Brooks says. "Right. Of course. Me. Hooah. I'll always root for the underdog."

Shepard glances at her, eyes narrowed. James fist slams into her face. Brooks grimaces. Shepard blinks, stumbles. James looks apologetic. "Get your head in the game, Lola. I heard you took down a Reaper but I'm beginning to think that was all made up." The ache in her face spreads out over her face like a wave. She tests her jaw experimentally and looks back at him. "Last time we did this, you were like a hornet's nest. Nonstop. Come on, Lola, show me that fire."

Cortez scoffs. "Careful what you wish for, Mr. Vega. My money's on the Commander taking this dance."

"But Commander Shepard can't use her biotics, not if she wants to be fair and I'm sure Commander Shepard always wants to be fair," Brooks says, hand on her chin thoughtfully. "James is so tall and strong. I'm not sure Commander Shepard could take him in a fair fight. I mean—those _muscles_ … Um—no offense, Commander!"

Shepard's eyes turn to her again and once again, she loses for it. She takes a punch to the stomach, another to her face. She sniffles but the blood runs down her nose, her vision temporarily blurry, air gone. He's a fucking ox. Blood drips on the floor.

"Oh, shit. Commander?" James touches her shoulder tentatively— "hey—"

Her eyes flash. Her fingers curl, glowing blue and plowing into his belly. With an 'oof' he doubles over. An instant later she smashes that same fist into his face. He falls onto his knees, stunned, his mouth bloody. Her knuckles are wet and red. She stoops. "That enough fire for you? Thanks for the dance."

She leaves them, cold, sick. Garrus and Liara are on the fourth level, looking down. Her stomach churns. She can't catch her breath. Cortez kneels beside James, patting his shoulder reassuringly. Brooks exclaims that she'll get medi-gel supplies. Somehow she makes it into the elevator before the doors close.

"You're out of control." Brooks hits the emergency brakes on the elevator.

"Someone once taught me that it's okay to cheat to win." Shepard's eyes skim over her.

"I know you're angry—"

Shepard's fingers wrap around Brooks' neck and slam her into the wall. Her eyes go wide and afraid. "I should fucking kill you. Don't come near me. Don't fucking talk to me."

 _{ Commander Shepard. Is everything all right? }_

Shepard squeezes her eyes shut. She releases her. Brooks gasps for breath. Fuck. "Yes, EDI." She looks at Brooks. "Sorry." She smiles. Brooks eyes seem to recede, going insurmountable distances. Shepard gently pushes the button to resume the elevator again. Blood runs down her nose, down her chin, tapping in beads onto her Alliance shirt. She's so cold. She can't get warm. She is losing it. She is out of control.

What if she really is Shepard? She thinks of the Carnifex, the Butcher. Maybe that's who she always was. Maybe that's all she'll ever be.

* * *

Jacob is dead. He died on the Collector Base. Before then, he nearly died at Shepard's hand in the shuttle bay. She'd held a pipe. If Garrus hadn't stopped her, would she have killed Jacob or merely crippled him? Now she's 'dancing' with James Vega. It isn't the same thing. She got her punches in, as James did, and walked away. Still, he hadn't thought of it in a long time and it disturbs him that today's encounter harkens back to those days.

Is she all right? Should he be worried? Liara has her doubts. Liara has been quiet and distant. Something is happening but she won't say what. The battery door opens and he turns back. He hadn't expected Michel but he's happy to see her. The doors close behind her and he straightens. "Dr. Michel." She frowns at that. Habit. "Has Shepard stopped by yet? How's James?"

"You know Shepard. She is stubborn. James is being attended to by Brooks. I think he prefers to play doctor with her." She clears her throat, her face reddening. "Not that we have—"

Garrus chuckles. "I think we all knew James isn't the sharpest tool in the shed. This just confirms it." His mandibles flex. "I don't know what's going on with her. Shepard. She's on edge. I thought we were over this shit."

"Mh. You two were close before. I know there has been some tension. Speak with her."

As if it were that simple. The thought makes him sigh. Kaidan is dead by his hand. Shepard has been doing all the right things. Maybe he's being hard on her. James likes to switch things up and Shepard has always loved a good fight. But what he saw. She was distracted. Why? And what does Brooks have to do with it? Shepard lacks the usual wild, unpredictable energy of before. She's cunning and precise. She took James' blows but when she finally struck back she knocked him out of the fight. "I mentioned before that the turian guys like to work things out through spar sessions. I'm not sure I'm willing to tango with Shepard."

"So tango with me instead." She touches a hand to his chest.

His heart flutters. He still isn't used to this. To her. A human. It's insane. With things strained between him and Shepard, Kaidan dead, Liara so closed off and Tali… he's begun spending more time with Chloe, their conversations going late into the night. He can't deny any more that Chloe has an interest—nor can he say that he minds. He's missed… companionship. In some ways, he's felt alone since the Collectors killed Shepard. Some part of him has been afraid to grow close to her again. Maybe he's tired of being disappointed. "I'll admit, I'm not bad." He brings a hand to her face, his fingers careful. "Am I keeping you?"

"I hope so."

He laughs nervously. Well. He's still as she lifts, pressing a kiss to the marred flesh along his face. His face warms. He clears his throat. "I… should probably talk to Shepard." He shakes his head. "Not that I'm trying to get out of here—" she arches an eyebrow and he wonders if she's right to question him. "You're nice. This is—I mean. I have a lot on my mind. You're a lot of that," he says quickly, closes his eyes shut and steps back, running a hand nervously over his crest. His shoulders slump. "I'm bad at this. Too much time on the war front—not enough time… with this kind of thing."

"And you think I'm an old hand at this?" she laughs softly. "I—" She stops short when Garrus wraps an arm around her waist, dipping her slightly and pressing his forehead to hers. Hrmph. He isn't exactly sure how to kiss a human. What if they're allergic to turians and they swell up? Sex education is severely lacking in keeping up with interspecies dating. Not that turians ever think to consider it all that frequently. Turians marry, date and bear children with other turians. That's how they're raised. Never mind the asari and the quarians. "Ow."

Great. He pulls Chloe to an upright position. She rubs her forehead gingerly. Maybe he went in too aggressively. Where are the Collectors when he needs them to blow up a ship and put him out of his misery? "Sorry. Do humans not head butt each other into unconsciousness when they're involved?" he asks. "Not that we— ah." He scratches his scar. "Can we catch up another time? Soon. After I've spoken to Shepard and you've… uh… checked yourself for a concussion." He winces. "Are you all right?"

"Why don't I do some _more_ research on human and turian interspecies relationships," she taps his hip lightly, "and you go see to Shepard?" He smiles, walking to the door. "Garrus? Don't be so nervous. I am not glass. I care about you. A concussion won't be enough to keep me away from you," she winks.

Agh, he's weak-kneed. "I'll try to save all my best moves for the Reapers. The hitting. Not…" Spirits. He nods and exits, giddy and feeling like a moron. Archangel: Scourge of Omega, ladies' man. He considers stopping in to see Liara but what's the use? She won't talk to him. He takes the elevator to Shepard's cabin, walking inside without an invitation.

The fish tank is intact. There are models in the display case. Liara's usual framed photograph is turned to face the wall but it's still there. That must mean something. Shepard's sitting on the couch. Her face is partially swollen, a trail of blood, thick and clotted running down her face, having stained her Alliance shirt. "What's going on?" he asks, his voice sharper than it should be. He's fed up with not having answers.

"I got carried away." She licks her lower lip, her tongue darting over the blood, frowning. "I think I need some time. Not long. Away from this ship. I've already told EDI, you're to be my XO." He regards her curiously. That is… unexpected. "I don't want Miranda Lawson on this ship. I've told EDI the same." She considers. "That's all."

He sits across from her. "That's all? The last time we were together you and Miranda were inseparable. Now you don't want her on the ship. Shepard, talk to me." Her eyes glance over him, as if it physically pains her to see him. "This XO thing—well—you know how I feel about leadership positions. Why not Liara?" The name usually evokes some kind of feeling in her. Her eyes dull at the mention.

"I need someone I can trust implicitly." Something's happened between them. Did Liara let Shepard in on her reservations? Liara's distance makes sense now. "I don't need you to trust me. I just need to know that I can trust you to do whatever it takes to win this war. Can I?"

Garrus takes a breath. "You can. But you're Shepard. People won't follow me the way they do you." Anyway, he doesn't like the way she's talking, like she might not be coming back.

"You'd be surprised." She licks her lips, again, her eyes glistening, clears her throat.

There's something she's keeping in. Whatever it is, it's killing her. Garrus doesn't know how to talk to her. They were best friends before. Their bond ran deeper than family. He can't head bump her. He can't knock her shoulder playfully. "Tell me what's happening with you."

She stands, taking a raspy breath, a hand running through her hair. "There's a lot going on." Her words splinter. "I … need to get my head on straight. Find my bearings. Garrus, I'm afraid—" she stops abruptly, the words locking in her throat.

But maybe she doesn't need to say anything. Maybe that word is enough. He stands and puts a hand on her shoulder. "We all are. We'd be crazy if we weren't. You've really turned things around since Tuchanka. I don't know. I'm starting to think we can do this." Her back straightens some. "I know things between us aren't what they should be. I've blamed you a lot for what happened on that Collector Ship. For Tali." He shakes his head. "I miss her."

"Me too." She rubs her eyes. "Guess I've screwed a lot of things up. Tali deserved better."

"I got my team killed on Omega. I can't talk."

"I'm sorry." The words are more sincere than he's ever heard them. She sniffles again and a fresh stream of blood runs down her nose.

"You should get that looked at."

"The Normandy is docking soon. Dock 42." She rubs her forehead. "I'll take care of this later."

His mandibles twitch. He doesn't like this. She exits the cabin. He meant to tell her about Chloe, ask about Liara. The time isn't right. He wonders if the time will ever be right. He can't shake the feeling that he ought to be doing more for her.

* * *

Even now she feels the pressure of her fingers digging into her throat.

Rasa doesn't deny that she deserves it and certainly it's better than the ice Shepard's been directing at her. She's surprised at how much it hurt, how much it still hurts, the dull, throbbing ache at her neck having little to do with it. Those same hands used to caress her, the same mouth used to whisper confessions of love, swear oaths of vengeance for the injustices Rasa once suffered.

Should she have kept lying to her? Was that the better thing to do? She didn't think so at the time. Somewhere along the way she screwed up. She let Grace get too close and now she's paying the price for becoming soft. She hates the way she feels, hates the way Grace looks at her, wishes she could turn it all off. How did she believe Grace could forgive her? Accept her? And if it were anyone else—if it were Liara who had betrayed Grace in such a way—would she want Grace to forgive her? Absolutely not.

Her breath hitches. That's it, then. She's lost her. She knew this time would come. She did not think it would be so soon, nor did she think it could ever affect her. How is it that making Grace strong made her weak? The door to her room whirs and she straightens. It isn't Grace and she kicks herself for being disappointed.

James walks into the room. She doesn't know why she spoke at all while he and Grace were 'dancing.' Did she want to make Grace jealous? Did she want a reaction? Did she only want her to fight back? It wasn't fair to either them, especially James who has been nothing but kind. _He doesn't know who you are. If he knew, he'd want to wring your neck, same as Grace._ Yes. Who could ever want her? The real her? She doesn't even know who that is.

The room is dimly lit but she can see his lip, busted open, the inflammation in his face. Rasa doesn't recognize the feeling that twists into her, the lightheadedness that makes her head swim. "Nice room," he says. "Better than mine. No offense, Butter, but how does someone like you get a room like this? You blackmailing the Commander or something?"

She smiles wryly. "Something like that." She casts a tentative look to his face. "You shouldn't have provoked her." He cocks an eyebrow. She spoke in her native voice. She's slipping. Maybe part of her wants to get caught and give up this charade. Then she can return to being… huh. She barely remembers her real name anymore. "I mean—Commander Shepard can take down Reapers, right? You are _not_ as big as a Reaper." She's so fucking tired of Maya Brooks. "Just shy of it, maybe."

"Why do I get the feeling that…" his eyebrows bunch together, drawing down, "that you dumb yourself down around me? Around everyone?"

"You think I'm dumb?"

"No. Hell no." He tilts his head back, exhaling.

"Why would I dumb myself down? What could that get me?" Because it always is about getting. And stupid people are always easier to trust. They don't have the intelligence to outwit you, to even try.

"You tell me."

In her lifetime she's played many roles: doctors, psychologists, military strategists. She was always questioned, demands for her credentials were made. However, when she played dumb, bumbling, awkward, with her foot in her mouth, that was only ever accepted, that could only ever be natural. "Maybe I just get nervous around you," she says.

That takes him by surprise. He smiles. She should ask him to leave. "Um, I have the medi-gel," she retrieves a few packets, "Dr. Michel insisted you go and check in with her instead. I'm not a doctor," even if she's played one before, even if she's had to sew herself and others back together. His hand cups her face and she freezes. She forces her eyes to him and tells herself not to panic.

James is an attractive man, the kind a fumbling idiot like Maya Brooks would fall for. He may look like a brute but it's all for show. He's kept her company. He's been the only one outside of Grace to even acknowledge her existence. She's never had friends, she's never known how. There was Kasumi, who ultimately left her and is now dead. She isn't sure how to proceed. Rasa would push him to the bed and screw his brains out, forget him and move on. It's different when she's _stuck_ , it's different when she isn't sure how long she'll have to play Maya Brooks. All of this has been a mistake. She has only made mistakes.

He steps closer. She's trapped as Maya Brooks, lonely and rejected as Rasa. His lips settle over hers. She doesn't know what to do with her hands. She loves Grace. What a cruel revelation. She fucked it up. She fucked all of it up. She takes a shaky breath. His lips are firm and she tastes the cut on his lips, iron. He pulls away and looks at her, holding her face carefully, as if she were something worth cherishing, protecting. "I've never done that before," he says.

"That was your first kiss?"

"Ouch." He chuckles, keeps near. "With someone I work with, I mean."

"Maybe you should pretend I'm not really in the Alliance." She doesn't know why she says that. It was meant to be a lie and ends up being the only real thing she's told him. She grabs his wrist. She isn't sure if she wants to keep him close or at bay.

"If you stop pretending around me."

Rasa steps away, releasing him. She doesn't know what to do with honest, earnest individuals. She's tired of all the lies. She should keep him here, take him to bed. None of it feels right. Since when does she care about what's right? She gives him the medi-gel packets. "I have to get to my post." She leaves the room swiftly. Maybe she should leave the ship. They'll win this war. She knows that now. Grace is right. She's not necessary anymore.

* * *

Bray pilots the shuttle while Aria regales Shepard with her intention to take back Omega. Shepard's read up on her best as she can. There's scant information about the woman. They've seen one another in passing at Purgatory but haven't spoken. Aria's eyes are merciless. They look at her with familiarity, gauging. "I know you have a lot going on, Shepard but it's time. We both know what happens if Cerberus keeps cementing power during this war."

"So taking Omega back is for the good of the galaxy. I didn't take you for a philanthropist."

"Philanthropy." Aria smiles wryly. "I'll leave that to you. Omega was stolen from me. You want something for the war effort. I get that. And so will you, once we take it back. I'll admit, part of me was hoping you'd be in it for the pure destructive joy of it all. Or maybe those rumors about you being in Cerberus' bed weren't rumors after all."

"You want me to kill and take from Cerberus all you have to do is ask." She needs to blow off steam and Cerberus is the perfect punching bag.

"Really?" She settles back into the shuttle seat. "I guess that's a lucky break for me. I won't ask why. You're too good to pass up. One more thing. This little operation—I don't want your do-gooder squad interfering. Leave your little asari and turian on the Normandy. I want you all to myself."

"Deal."

* * *

Liara stops her as she's exiting the Normandy. EDI and Joker pretend not to notice. Shepard walks away but Liara follows her down the ramp to catch another shuttle. "Shepard. _Shepard."_ Liara grabs her arm. The hardsuit makes it impossible to feel any warmth she might have, _if_ she has any. Did she imagine that Liara years ago? Can someone be the same person and so radically different? "Don't do this." Liara releases her, looks down at her feet and back to Shepard's face. "Aria's dangerous. So is this… Oleg Petrovsky."

"No more dangerous than you." That might have been a joke once, a way of teasing. Maybe Shepard would have touched Liara's face, kissed her. Now she needs to be away from her. It's terrifying how earnest, sweet faces are capable of hiding so much deception. She doesn't know Aria but she knows her methods, knows she's brutal. That's honest in its own way.

"Aria's only in it for Aria. You're too important to the war effort to risk. I know you're angry but you can't afford to be reckless. At least let us go with you."

"And have you watch my back? No thanks." She slips her helmet on and leaves her behind.

* * *

"Damn it!"

Miranda steps back, the gadget whirring. The keeper hisses, crawling frantically from side to side before melting into itself, leaving a puddle of goo. She lifts the analyzer, nearly throws it before lowering it back to her side.

Fingers wrap around her hand, sliding the instrument away and setting it back on the table. Samantha has her signature smile, teasing and reassuring in one. "That is a very expensive toy and tends to work better when it's not smashed into little pieces, not to mention, I've spent weeks modifying it." She looks at the keeper remains and wrinkles her nose. "That never stops being disgusting, does it?"

"We're getting nowhere," she snaps. Samantha steps back. Miranda bites her tongue. They've been working on the keeper project for nearly two months with no tangible level of success. She believed herself one of the more brilliant minds in the galaxy. Maybe she bought into her own hype. She's accomplished nothing with Shepard's project and is no closer to understanding the keepers than she was weeks ago. _On the other hand you're doing a fantastic job of systematically wiping them out._

"They're older than the Citadel. We just need more time."

Miranda isn't sure they have it. She looks around the lab. Chorban is busy experimenting with a new chemical neutralizer. Brynn and Oriana are hunched over a computer screen, looking at the scant readings they've managed to get. It isn't enough to discern their secrets, to figure out their purpose. Maybe Shepard's completely off and it isn't important.

This is the most settled she's been in a long time but she can't bring herself to relax. Cerberus is still hunting her and she received an alarming email from Liara. _She knows. Be careful._

Shepard hasn't visited yet or asked for Samantha to return to the Normandy but it's only a matter of time. Everything is going wrong. Liara appears to be safe from the clone's wrath. Miranda doubts she is. How did Shepard find out...? Was it Samara? Why would the justicar who had previously sworn to kill Shepard betray Miranda's confidence? Maybe it doesn't matter. There's no way she'll be able to implant her now. Not without forfeiting her life. Grace may be a clone but Miranda can't beat her. She's seen her fight, and she knows when she's outmatched. It's why she had approached Samara in the first place.

For two years she lived, breathed Shepard. She wasted her life. She wasted money. Shepard didn't return the same. It was enough to stop the Collectors. Perhaps that's enough. Or would be if the Reapers weren't knocking on their doorstep. Perhaps Grace can do it but... she has no reason to believe it.

"What's going on?" Samantha asks. "You've been on edge for days now." Miranda doesn't look at her. She can't very well tell Samantha that the current Shepard she knows is an imposter. That it was the last one, the Cerberus lap dog, her own monstrous creation, the now dead Shepard, who was real. She shifts. Will Shepard kill her? Grace is softer than Shepard but despite whatever thing she had going on with Rasa, it didn't stop her from stabbing an omni-blade into her.

"I'm just frustrated. It's nothing to worry about."

"I take it if I wasn't here you'd drop off the face of the galaxy again. I'd have no idea what you were up to."

"Maybe. But you _are_ here." She inclines her head to the door. It'd be best to leave while Brynn and Ori are occupied. The lab has an office. Miranda steps inside, initiating the blinds and lock as soon as Samantha has stepped inside. She doesn't bother with the lights.

"Why Ms. Lawson. I believe you've brought me here for nefarious purposes."

Miranda allows a small smile, pressing her fingertips to Samantha's chest and pushing her to a sitting on the couch. Miranda straddles her, resting her arms to either side of Samantha. "I'd hate to disappoint you."

Their lips come together. This is becoming natural the more time they spend together. A thrilling spark shoots through Miranda, dismantling the frustration and worry that ebbs at her. Samantha is always good-natured despite the difficulty. Her nervous chatter is slowly easing away to reveal her brand of quick wit and at times brazen personality. Her military records give no indication of how intelligent she really is. She would have been a coup for Cerberus. Not only that, she's attractive and she knows it. Maybe the Reaper War is the only reason she isn't attached. Maybe it's the only reason Miranda is bothering. And still, the younger woman is so likable, so ever talented with her hands and mouth.

Miranda presses closer to her, Samantha's hands coming to her hips, fingers digging before they break for breath. Samantha grins. "We should stop before I ravage you here and now." Miranda arches an eyebrow suggestively. "No...!"

"Why not?" Samantha turns her head to look out the window and sees nothing. The blinds are drawn. Miranda turns Samantha to face her, teases her with barely there kisses. "They're busy." She breathes in her ear. "I need this." She undoes two buttons on her top, pushing the material aside, brings Samantha's hands to it, noticing the woman going short of breath already.

"You know, eventually you'll have to have conversations with me."

Miranda nods, focusing on the warmth of Samantha's fingers as they undo buttons, the heat of her mouth as they join again.

She needs a break that's all. A way to reenergize. This won't be the first time she uses sex in this manner and she's sure it won't be the last. She doesn't know how long this will last. Maybe no time at all but she'll enjoy it while she can. Her fingers slip beneath Samantha's shirt and take it from her. Even with their bodies crushed together it doesn't feel close enough, even as things steady and slow, a sense of peace returning to her. Is it the same for Samantha?

Miranda tries and fails to bite back a soft gasp. "Don't come crying to me if your sister storms in here," Samantha warns.

"I'll kill her if she dreams of it," Miranda says with a breathless laugh, seizing Samantha's lips again.

* * *

The ships are being decimated. Klaxons ring throughout the space vessel. Aria wants to ram the ship into the outer walls of Omega. She's fucking crazy. "We have to get to the escape pods," Shepard tells Aria. Aria curls her fist, slamming it on the console, but she agrees. The ship is being ripped apart. Shepard swallows hard and tries to get her breathing in order. She thinks of the last time she saw Liara, _really_ saw her, the explosions that blasted holes into the Normandy, that one final blast that cut the ship in half and sent her flying until the stars and the world around her stole the last of her breath.

"Move your ass, Shepard," Aria shouts.

Shepard blinks and gets into the escape shuttle. They fly like a skipping stone until they crash land hard, inside Omega.

* * *

It's a war zone. Targets everywhere. Adrenaline slips into her, blooming like a narcotic. It's easier to breathe in the chaos. She knows her role here and Aria knows too. Whatever Shepard says, Aria will follow. She's surprisingly grateful. How strange to be followed, no questions asked.

* * *

Nyreen has an elegance to her. Shepard hasn't met many female turians and her presence seems to throw Aria, no matter how quickly the asari's guard comes back up. "Let's keep moving." Shepard forges ahead. Aria is at her side, throwing the occasional glance back as if to make sure the woman is still there. "Will your friend play nice?"

"It's one of her worst qualities, I'm afraid."

* * *

Nyreen the incorruptible now heads up the Talons. As unfazeable as Aria seems, this is the second time in a short period that the turian has surprised her. Whoever led the Talons as drug smuggling mercenaries is gone. Nyreen is something else, disciplined, principled, a champion for those suffering in Omega. Strange to imagine Aria and Nyreen together… except, wasn't it much the same with her and Liara years ago? "Is she going to get in our way?" Shepard asks Aria.

"She needs us. And don't be fooled. Despite that cold shoulder she is so _magnificently_ giving us, I still have her wrapped around my little finger."

"I just hope you're not letting your history make you soft."

"You're calling _me_ soft? And here I thought I was the cynic."

"If you two don't quit your gossiping I'm leaving you behind," Nyreen calls back.

Shepard smiles. Aria shakes her head. "And she's still a pain in the ass. Some things never change."

* * *

Aria gives a speech to prime the masses for open revolt. Nyreen is unhappy. Shepard isn't sure how to feel. Omega is populated by criminals. If they want to die fighting Cerberus, it's no big loss. She shifts uncomfortably. Nyreen wouldn't fight for madmen and thugs. Not exclusively. Despite Omega's disgusting underbelly, there must be something here worth preserving. Is she any better? She's been blowing off steam one bullet at a time. She sighs.

"What's the matter, Shepard? Not a fan of my speech?"

"It wasn't bad if your aim is to get every civilian on Omega killed. Cerberus doesn't play around."

"My thoughts exactly," Nyreen glares at Aria. "I won't let you do this to my people."

" _Your_ people? The good news is, I already have. Enough talking. Petrovsky isn't going to _hand_ Omega over."

* * *

Torn bodies everywhere and whispers fill the darkness, discordant with the clanking of metal in the distance. "Adjutants," Nyreen warns.

"Listen to you. You're still letting them eat you up."

Shepard wonders if they ever stop bickering. "What the hell is an adjutant?"

A shriek cuts through black. Several thumps make the metal grating they walk on unsteady. Shepard lifts the Carnifex. An instant later she's flung back. She slams into a column, dropping down a level and crashing hard over a railing. The air goes out of her. She flips over the railing, catches herself by the tips of her fingers and wheezes for breath. It's pitch black but she knows it's a steep fall. Not one that's survivable. Her head spins.

There's a softer clanking sound, steps and then strong fingers around her arm, yanking her up. Nyreen pats her shoulder once she's on her feet. "You all right?" Shepard nods, trying to get oriented. There are screams coming from above, gunfire, the sound of biotic detonations. " _That's_ an adjutant."

"Any day now, ladies!"

Nyreen looks up. "As charming as ever."

* * *

Aria plunges her fingers into the energy barrier, the air charging like static around them. They walked into Petrovsky's trap. Luring them to the reactor was brilliant and if he wasn't Cerberus, and a soon to be dead man, Shepard would congratulate him. Aria grunts and little by little she pulls the barrier apart. Shepard laughs shortly, in awe. Jesus.

She doesn't have time to sit around and be impressed. Petrovsky's mechs start trickling into the enclosed area. Aria's too busy fucking around with the force field to be any use. _You were looking for a fight and you got one._ All things considered, she can't complain.

Aria is of another mind. "Shepard, I can't hold this much longer. Go!"

Aria's created an opening just big enough. Shepard goes through and doesn't look back. She sprints to the controls. Petrovsky assures her that cutting off the power to the force field would kill the citizens of Omega. Shepard doesn't think he's bluffing. He's not the bluffing type. Aria, predictably doesn't care. "There isn't enough time, Shepard," Aria growls into her headpiece. "Hit the fucking overload _now_."

"I can reroute the power," she tells her. "Relax."

" _Relax_?" Despite the tinny voice, it remains piercing. "We're getting hammered down here. Nyreen's taken a hit."

"Take care of her. This will be over soon." Shepard lifts the omni-tool and types into it. Rerouting the power won't be difficult. Guess that fucking graybox got her something after all. _Maybe you'll thank Rasa after all this is over._ Not fucking likely.

* * *

Nyreen's gone to Afterlife ahead of schedule. Aria and Shepard hustle but it's too late. By the time they arrive adjutants swarm around Nyreen. "That idiot is going to get herself killed." There's a tension in Aria's voice that wasn't there before. "She was always so fucking sensitive."

Shepard assumes she refers to the spat they got into about the adjutants. She senses that beneath Aria's abrasive exterior is someone worried about Nyreen letting her fear get the better of her in the middle of a gunfight. Afterlife is in sight. They rush in as a crowd of civilians scramble to get away. Nyreen was clearing a path for them. "That 'idiot' is kicking a lot of ass right now," Shepard says. There's a shadow at the corner of her eye and she turns. There's shouting, hails of gunfire, grenades exploding.

"The adjutants are down," pride gleams in Aria's words. "Good job, Nyreen."

A shadow drips from above, falling like silk. "Yes. Good job, Nyreen." They stop. Nyreen touches the blade coming out of her stomach. Kai Leng kicks her off it and Nyreen falls forward, dead weight. "You and your friends have been a nuisance long enough, Aria." He flicks the blood away from the blade, sheathing it onto his back.

He turns, walks to Afterlife. They huddle over Nyreen, checking for signs of life. She's gone. Aria screams and Shepard is blasted back by a biotic wave as she charges after Leng. Shepard scrambles to her feet. "Aria, wait!"

* * *

Aria screams in frustration, pulling furiously against the bands of energy that leash her limbs. She's suspended in midair, trapped like a fly in a web. Christ. Aria is nobody to be fucked with, but Petrovsky sure does seem to have her number. The Cerberus general treats it as a teaching moment. "Divide and conquer," he lectures Shepard from his perch. Kai Leng stands beside him, an arrogant smirk on his face. She's overcome by an intense desire to remove that smirk, face and all.

Enemies pour into the room. Adjutants, agile and powerful, spring through side hatches. Troopers and nemeses drop down from above. Shepard eyes the shield pylons that anchor Aria's prison. That energy field is slowly killing her. If she can get to the override controls and destroy the pylons, Aria can be freed.

This is going to be messy.

She sprints to the nearest corner, finds the first console and hits the override. She shoots out the shield pylon just as the first wave of enemies reaches her. The troopers and nemeses are familiar foes, predictable, easily neutralized with efficient, practiced methods. The adjutants are chaotic by comparison, requiring more energy, more focus as she hones her strategy for fighting them.

Making a trail of corpses, she fights her way to the second console. Another override, another pylon destroyed, another adjutant left smoldering on the ground. Halfway home. She glances up at the perch. Petrovsky's still standing there, but Leng is absent. He could be in play. Better watch her back.

She moves quickly, staying low, putting her Carnifex away in favor of the Eviscerator. Third console. Two troopers try to stop her. She turns their heads into a crimson mist. An adjutant springs at her. She rolls out of the way, throws out a singularity to slow it down, slaps the override. She moves on, blasting the pylon as she goes by. Three down, one to go. Aria urges her on, sensing her freedom is imminent.

Leng emerges from shadow to block her path. That smirk is still there. Cocky bastard hasn't even bothered to draw his sword. What the fuck is he doing here? "You think you can win?" he hisses. "You're just a fucking copy. You're not even real." He's close. She lifts the shotgun. He grabs the barrel, pushing it to one side and twisting to the other as she pulls the trigger. It discharges harmlessly into empty air. He yanks it from her grasp and hurls it away.

She backhands him across the mouth. "That feel real enough to you, asshole?" He brings a hand to his face, glances at the blood he brings away from a torn lip. The smirk is gone. She goes straight at him.

He's a master of hand to hand combat, as good as anyone she's faced. It's like fighting the wind. Soon, the sword comes out, bloodies her shoulder. Leng's lips pull back smugly at the strike, his teeth crimson with blood. "I thought you were supposed to be good. I'm not impressed."

She slaps her injured shoulder. "You're a pussy, Leng. I'm going to take that knife away and fuck you with it." She throws herself back at him, fighting with a controlled fury, ever mindful of the blade. Kicks and punches combine in an intricate dance, both combatants blocking, countering, dodging, until Leng's boot connects with her chest plate, sending her flying back through the air. She hits the ground and rolls.

 _Fuck!_

Leng advances, sword twirling in his hand as she scrambles to her feet. "Shepard!" Aria shouts from above. "Behind you!" Shepard doesn't hesitate, lunges to one side. The adjutant of before springs through the air she just left. Leng's eyes widen as the creature crashes into him. Both go sprawling to the ground.

Now's her chance. Shepard spots a trooper guarding the final console and _charges_ him, caving in his face with an elbow. She hits the override and moves to the pylon, Carnifex drawn. Leng is back on his feet, a scowl on his face, the adjutant bleeding on the ground. He's too late. She looks at him. "I'd love to keep you all to myself, but this is Aria's house." She blasts the pylon.

With an elemental roar, Aria tears free, riding a tide of biotic energy to the ground. Another wave of enemies streams into the room. When Shepard glances over, Leng is gone, slipping past one of the incoming adjutants and vanishing through a hatch.

* * *

It's over. Petrovsky tips his king, radios his troops and orders them to stand down. He surrenders himself to Shepard. Clearly, he's expecting her to do the honorable thing and take him into Alliance custody. She's happy to disappoint him. Aria can have him. Cerberus assholes deserve no quarter.

Petrovsky tries to bargain for his life, panic creeping in his voice as he claims knowledge of Cerberus secrets. He offers to divulge everything he knows about the Illusive Man. Shepard doesn't doubt he knows things; she simply doesn't care. "No thanks," she demurs. "Cerberus is going down soon enough. I don't need your help." She turns and walks away as Aria wraps her hands around his throat.

Aria takes her time with him. The gasping, wheezing and gurgling go on for several minutes before it ends. Eventually she joins Shepard on the perch overlooking Afterlife. Flexing her hands, she looks to Shepard. "You don't know how long I've needed that."

"Feeling better?"

"Feeling perfect." Shepard looks to Oleg's body, his face purple and frozen in distress. "I knew bringing you was a good idea. I'll admit, some part of me was waiting for you to disappoint me, start with the heroic speeches." Shepard smirks. "I'm not wrong often."

"A pessimist is never disappointed." She settles her hands on the railings and looks at the chaos. The club is destroyed, bodies litter the floor. "Afterlife looks like shit. Hope your insurance covers hostile Cerberus takeovers." Aria scoffs. "How are you doing?"

"I just got Omega back and had the acute satisfaction of watching the life drain out of Oleg Petrovsky's face. How do you think I'm doing?"

She looks in high spirits. It's hard to imagine that not long ago she was a vessel of rage and destruction. "Nyreen's dead. And say what you want, but she was a chink in that armor of yours."

"And now she's gone. Along with that 'chink.'" She looks sidelong at Shepard. "I appreciate what you did here, Shepard but I'm not interested in talking about my feelings."

"That'd require having more than one."

Aria smiles, digging her fingers into the collar of Shepard's hardsuit and yanking her close. Aria kisses her, bruising and hot. It takes her by surprise. Aria tastes of blood, dirt, gunpowder, sweat. Or maybe that's her. Maybe that's both of them. Battlefields. Life. Death. Shepard returns the kiss vigorously, lustfully. Then it's over and they heave for breath, licking their lips.

"I'd ask you to stay and play but I need to start getting things in order. You have the Reapers to contend with."

Shepard can't say she'd mind staying to play but she's fairly sure she needs medical attention. Her mouth still tastes of blood. "'Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out?'"

"Don't worry. You'll get what's owed to you." Aria smiles. "Come see me sometime when we both have less on our plate." She turns away from Shepard, focusing on the monitoring and communication systems.

With the immediate danger over, Shepard limps, wipes at the blood on her face, feels where bullets burrowed in, where Kai Leng's blade chucked off pieces of her armor, entered her shoulder. Her body is bruised from the blows she took from the adjutants, her helmet is smashed to shit but she's alive. Her wild, desperate energy of before has been sated. She feels more at ease, despite her battered body. Cerberus refuses to play fair.

Outside of Afterlife, adjutant corpses are scattered. Talons and civilians crowd around Nyreen's body, lifting her as if she were some sort of messiah.

Shepard wonders if she could have done anything differently. She wonders what it means that she didn't miss any of them while she was away from the Normandy. Maybe she is meant to be a lone wolf. She needs to let go of her expectations, her resentments. Whatever life she had, whatever life she remembers, she needs to put it away. Only the Reapers matter now.


	33. Dolls

Bray isn't much of a talker, or maybe he just doesn't like humans. It's okay; Shepard isn't in the mood for conversation either. She's out of medi-gel and regretting turning down a trip to the medic before leaving Omega. She figured they had enough carnage of their own to deal with. She tries to catch a nap on the shuttle but finds it impossible. Her body aches, and the memory of Aria's kiss, hot and forceful, lingers on her lips.

The batarian deposits her at the Citadel, breaking the silence to offer up a few words of encouragement as she disembarks – something about making the Reapers regret ever waking up. She thanks him and heads down to Huerta Memorial. The hospital is overflowing with the wounded and the dying. Much of the lobby has been converted into a makeshift recovery ward. The staff looks harried and tired as they move between patients.

 _Fucking war_.

She's turning to leave when one of the interns glances over. Glimpsing all the dried blood on her, he pulls her to one side and gives her a quick examination. _Not seeing anything too serious here, Commander. Sorry we can't spare any medi-gel_. She grits her teeth as he quickly cleans and stitches up the worst of her injuries. He sends her on her way with a handful of pain meds and a prescription for bedrest. _Stay safe out there, Commander._

She finds Tiberius Towers and takes the elevator up. Anderson's flat is spacious bordering on palatial. She spends an hour exploring it, despite how tired she is. There's a piano, a bar, a mini-bar, three beds, three baths. She feels vaguely ridiculous occupying such an extravagant space. She recalls her days hopping from one cramped safe house to another with Hope. They rarely stayed anywhere with more than a single bathroom. Those days seem like a lifetime ago. The memories evoke a certain nostalgia, no matter how stressful and confusing things may have seemed at the time.

Exhaustion has caught up with her. She quickly sends a message off to Garrus before swallowing some meds and crashing in the main bedroom upstairs. Consciousness dissipates the moment her head hits the pillow. When she wakes, she finds fifteen hours have passed. She slips out of bed, searches the closet, finds a plush robe and pulls it on.

Famished, she heads down to the kitchen to see what she can scrounge up. On the counter, she finds a welcome note from a neighbor/sitter who got an alert when she let herself in. The pantry and fridge have been freshly stocked. She pours herself some mango juice, toasts an English muffin, fries up three eggs and a pile of sausage links. She takes the heaping plate of food with her into the rec room, sits down at the terminal and checks her messages while she eats.

 _Shepard,_

 _I trust your vacation on sunny Omega was refreshing and carefree. Word is the queen is back on her throne. Wish I could have been there. Nothing like gunning down a few hundred of Cerberus' finest to lift the spirits. I bet they're calling it the biggest bloodbath since Archangel's reign of terror. Nice job kicking the Illusive Man's ass off that rock._

 _The Normandy is still in one piece. Gotta say, Shepard, bold choice leaving the turian in command. Not every day I get put in charge of an Alliance vessel during wartime. Don't worry, I kept the talk of mutiny to a low roar, and the Reapers are right where you left them._

 _Joker says we'll be arriving at the Citadel in about 36 hours. It'll be good to have you back in the CIC. I haven't been able to calibrate in peace for days._

 _\- Garrus_

She peruses the rest of her messages. There's an invitation to the Armax Arena, another lack-of-progress report from Miranda, and a few other forgettable emails. She checks the time. Mid-morning. Garrus sent the reply twelve hours ago. Another 24 hours to kill until the _Normandy_ arrives.

Depositing the dirty dishes and utensils in the kitchen sink, she heads back up to the bedroom. The robe falls away as she steps into the master bath. The hot tub garners serious consideration—another luxury that seems incompatible with her existence. Or Anderson's for that matter. In the end the shower wins out. The hot, steaming water cascades over her skin, invigorating her, washing away the sins of Omega.

Afterward, she searches through Kahlee's wardrobe until she finds something loose and comfortable to put on. It occurs to her that she could pay Miranda a visit while she's here. Miranda Lawson, the fucking ingrate who conspired with Liara to put a control chip in her head. This, after she helped save Oriana and stopped an indoctrinated Shepard from dooming the galaxy. Her blood starts to boil. Maybe she isn't ready for that conversation after all.

The doctor told her to get some rest. She goes downstairs, flops onto the couch, turns on the television. There's a Blasto movie she's already seen twice, some idiotic sitcoms, soaps, game shows. She surfs through a couple dozen channels before finally settling on ANN. Yep, there's still a war going on. She watches for about twenty minutes, then turns the television off. Christ. Is being a lone wolf supposed to be so fucking boring? The _Normandy_ can't get here soon enough.

Fuck doctor's orders. She goes back upstairs, changes clothes again, straps on her hardsuit. Clamping weapons to her back and side, she exits the apartment.

* * *

The Silversun Strip is as busy as Miranda has ever seen it. People mill about in small groups, cluttering the walkways, chatting, laughing and flirting as if they haven't a care in world, as if everything they know isn't on the brink of annihilation.

She knows they aren't truly that oblivious. They're just coping the only way they know how, taking their minds off their own mortality for a few hours. Underneath the mannered, well-coiffed veneer churns a miasma of fear, anger, lust and anticipation. It wouldn't take much for that primal energy to spill over, dissolving polite society in an orgy of violence. As much as she might disdain the notion, distractions such as the Silversun Strip are a necessity, now more than ever. The façade of civility is all that holds civilization together.

There is no greater distraction on the strip than the Armax Arena when a premier fighter is on the marquee. Miranda arrives at the north entrance and finds herself contending with throngs of patrons trying to get in. Word has gotten around that the great Commander Shepard is playing today, and business is booming. An electronic scoreboard shows Shepard currently holding the second high score, behind Barla Von's team of professional mercenaries.

She forces her way through the crowd, swatting away the pawing hands of opportunistic gropers, and ignoring the complaints of those she sharply elbows aside. Eventually she makes it through the front door, striding past the ticket windows and into the stadium. There's a buzz in the air as people excitedly discuss Shepard's last match and speculate about what she'll do next. A krogan stands guard at the entrance to the player area. He sees her coming and steps aside. _Welcome, Miss Lawson. Commander Shepard has arranged a guest pass for you. Please go on in_.

She finds Shepard standing at the player terminal. The wavy-haired brunette glances back as Miranda descends the stairs, then returns to whatever she's reading. "You should see all the crazy fan mail I'm getting," she says. "I've only been playing for a few hours, and already I've gotten over a dozen proposals for marriage, at least three of which are from hanar. I've also gotten requests for locks of hair, brain tissue samples and my eggs. It gets weirder from there."

Miranda stops a few feet short of her. "I got two marriage proposals on the way here. And if it were possible, I'm pretty sure I would have gotten pregnant squeezing my way through the crowd out front. Why am I here?"

Shepard turns. "I thought it was time we cleared the air."

"This is a waste of time, Shepard. We both have better things to be doing."

"Like what?" she smirks. "Jumping Traynor's bones? Wiping out the keepers? Engineering a new control chip? Coming up with a new scheme to enslave me?"

Miranda opens her mouth, closes it again, looks away.

Shepard pulls her Carnifex, ejects the heat sink, slams a fresh one in. "Yeah. That's what I thought," she says, holstering the gun again. "Look, you knew this conversation had to happen. I could have come to your apartment, or the lab, tried to talk to you there, but I was afraid I might lose my cool and do something… regrettable."

"Grace—"

"Don't call me that!" A wild biotic pulse crashes into Miranda, staggering her back to the stairs. Tripping over the first step, she grabs the railing with one hand and braces her fall with the other. Shepard brings a hand to her temple as Miranda regains her feet. "Sorry. Believe it or not, this isn't how I wanted this to go. I've been working through some anger issues. A number of people I had allowed to get close to me have recently disappointed me in pretty profound ways. Not just you and Liara, though I have been wanting to take that disappointment out on your face for a while now." Shepard turns to the console and starts punching in match parameters.

Miranda's hand travels down to her side, fingers lightly touching the hilt of her M-3 Predator while her heart pounds. She regulates her breathing. _In. Out_. Deep breaths, but not too deep. Her heartbeat starts slowing to normal.

"It isn't fair to you, really." Shepard continues. "Your Shepard went off the rails. She was indoctrinated. Must have been all that exposure to Reaper tech, some of which you and your boss put in her. And who knows what else happened to her. I admit I only know part of the story." She pauses. "It makes you nervous, doesn't it? Not being in control. You can't be sure what I'll do. I'm just a clone, spare parts, an unknown quantity, whatever. I get it. You haven't done anything that I might not have considered in your place. I can even say that others have let me down in objectively worse ways. Do you know what your problem is?"

"Enlighten me."

"Your problem is that I just don't like you very much." Shepard sets the difficulty level to the maximum, then looks over her shoulder. "But I do like Oriana. Weird, right? How could I like one of you and not the other?"

She isn't expecting an answer, is she? Miranda offers none. If Shepard notices her hand on butt of her weapon, she makes no show of it.

Shepard turns back to the console. "Anyway, I thought it would be better if we had this little heart to heart in an environment where I had something else to take my aggression out on." Her hand hovers over the enemy choice. "So. What do you think? Collectors? I just unlocked them."

"Fine by me. You know what you're doing?"

Shepard barks a laugh. "That's the question, isn't it?" She scrolls to the Collectors, makes the selection. "Guess we'll find out. You know, I fought these things once before."

Miranda recalls the Shadow Broker footage. "New Canton."

Shepard faces her. "That's right. I'll be honest, they scared the shit out of me. Killed my squad." Her eyes soften, staring into the distance. "There was this one bug – he kept coming back no matter how many times I squashed him. Kept calling me Shepard."

Miranda nods, hand still on her gun. "The Collector General. He was Harbinger's puppet."

Shepard smiles wryly. "I imagine the Collector General didn't like that very much." She heads to the locker room. "No way am I leaving until I've knocked Barla Von off the top of that scoreboard. So, you going to shoot me with that thing, or are you going to help?"

Miranda hesitates. X8 is clearly volatile, but no more so than Shepard had been. Of course she's not going to shoot her. Killing the clone was never the goal. She should just leave. There's a lot of work to be done. Those damn Keepers aren't going to capture themselves. Ugh. She's sick of cleaning up goo. And she could use the exercise, frankly. She follows Shepard into the locker room.

* * *

"Dr. T'Soni, a new intel report from Operative Feron has arrived."

"Thank you, Glyph." The info drone spins contentedly and floats away as Liara pulls up the report. Feron is her lieutenant in the Terminus Systems. His guile, paired with Tazzik's brawn, have formed the nucleus of one of her most reliable, productive teams. She peruses the concisely-written report, absorbing every morsel of information. In the wake of Aria's retaking of Omega, Cerberus has shut down their salvage operations beyond the Omega-4 relay.

Shepard, _Grace_ , whoever she is, has dealt yet another significant blow to Cerberus, further driving home the shortsightedness of Liara's betrayal. If Miranda had been successful in chipping her, they undoubtedly would have chosen to prohibit the commander from going to Omega. It would have been a vital opportunity lost. How many more opportunities would they have gone on to squander if they had succeeded in leashing the galaxy's greatest hope for salvation? Goddess. She was such a fool.

As if on cue, the door to her cabin hisses open and Shepard walks in. She and Specialist Traynor returned to the _Normandy_ a few hours ago. Liara examines the commander. There are some new scratches and bruises to be found, but she looks vibrant and recharged, calmer than when she left. Even as she saunters to a halt, she exudes the confident, patient manner of a predator on the hunt for its next meal. It's intimidating and utterly magnetic. Why is she here? To yell at her some more? To kick her off the _Normandy_ at last?

"Shepard. I heard you were back. I'm glad you're okay."

"Oh? You sure about that?"

"Of course! I was worried to death. You refused to take any of us with you." Somehow, the expression of concern feels clumsy coming out of her mouth, the sound of it insincere to her own ears. They're the words of a friend—a sentimental bond she has forfeited, regardless of any shred of familiarity they may share.

"I'm capable of taking care of myself, T'Soni."

"I know that! I just—" Liara sighs inwardly. Shepard isn't going to make this easy. And why should she? "What can I do for you, Shepard?" She waits for the hammer to fall.

"We're heading to the Far Rim to meet with the quarians. I need to bone up on the admirals, figure out what makes them tick. We need to get their fleet off the sidelines and involved in this war, one way or another."

She needs help _. Thank the goddess_. "That won't be a problem. I have dossiers on all of them. I'll forward them to you right away."

Shepard shifts uncomfortably. "There's more."

Liara studies her. "What's on your mind?"

She looks down. "Tali's trial. Garrus has mentioned it, but I don't know much. She… the other Shepard was there. She met the admirals, talked to them. I need you to talk to Garrus, find out everything that happened, everything that was said. I can't afford to be taken by surprise."

Liara frowns. She wasn't on board the _Normandy_ at the time, but she knows Garrus and Tali became close. Dredging up memories of her might be painful for him. He will deflect with that formidable shield of dry wit. Prod some more, and he might get angry. "What you're asking… It could prove difficult."

"I know. Apparently, Garrus and I— _she_ came to blows over Tali's death. But I need to know, and I can't be the one to ask him. It has to be you."

Liara sighs softly, relenting. "All right. I'll do it." She'll approach him as the Shadow Broker, seeking to keep her files up to date. It won't be a lie, exactly.

"Good. Thank you." Shepard pauses. "Have you told anyone else about me? Besides Miranda?"

Liara shakes her head emphatically. "No."

"Think you can keep it that way?"

"Yes. I swear, Shepard."

Shepard stares at her for a long moment. "Okay." She turns to leave.

"Shepard… wait." Shepard stops, turns back to her. "I need to say something."

"I think maybe you should quit while I'm still in a good mood, T'Soni."

Sound advice. Advice she's about to ignore. "Please, Shepard, just listen." She takes a step forward. "It was wrong, what Miranda and I tried to do. I'm sorry. It won't happen again. I'm here to help you succeed."

The corner of Shepard's mouth curls up wryly. "Well. That's… inspiring." She folds her arms. "But since you brought it up, tell me why you went along with Miranda's plan."

She should have known she wasn't going to get off that easy. She takes a shaky breath and plunges in. "Do you remember when I told you that finding out about you was like losing Shepard for the second time?"

"Yes."

"I wasn't being entirely honest. The truth is I'd already had that feeling a long time ago."

"What are you talking about?"

Liara glances away. "We—she and I—melded. I looked into her mind and found nothing but desolation. It was dark and cold and ugly. The woman I knew was gone, replaced by some... monster. Every time I saw her, I recognized her less. Then you came along, and I had no idea what to think." Her eyes glisten. "I still don't, and that terrifies me. When Miranda came to me with talk of a control chip, I saw a way out—a way to avoid going through that hell again. I took it. It was wrong. I'm sorry." Wiping her eyes, she returns to her terminal, begins typing with hesitant strokes.

Seconds pass. "Liara—"

Liara steadies herself. "There's nothing more to say, Shepard. I should get back to my work. I'll speak to Garrus. You'll have your report soon." She immerses herself in a stream of keystrokes, trying not to feel Shepard's eyes boring into her.

A few moments later, she hears the hiss of the door as Shepard exits the room.

* * *

Her arms feel like noodles, and her shoulder feels like flame. Rasa struggles to pull herself up just one more time but can't quite get there. Why the hell did she agree to this anyway? She hates mornings. She especially hates sweating in the morning. Releasing the bar with a soft grunt of defeat, she drops to the floor.

"That's it?" James chides her. "That's all you got? One chin-up?"

"One and a half," she haggles, smiling sheepishly. It's the kind of smile Rasa or Hope wouldn't be caught dead offering up, but comes easily to a bumbling fool like Maya Brooks.

He chuckles. "Halfway don't count, Butter. You know that. We gotta strengthen up that shoulder of yours."

Grimacing, she swings her arm in a circle and rubs at the throbbing shoulder with her free hand. "I'm afraid it might be a lost cause."

"Nah. It'll come around, you'll see. You'll be back out on the shooting range in no time."

Ah, yes, she did let that little detail slip, didn't she? James has a way of making her drop her guard. He kissed her. They haven't spoken of it, nor has he tried to do it again. "Oh, right! The shooting range! Wait. We don't have a shooting range."

"No problema, Mija. We'll just set up some beer cans at the end of the shuttle bay. Can't wait to see what you can do with a rifle."

"Oh, I'm not really very good." That's a lie, of course. She's a dead shot. "But it's a date. Oh! No, I didn't mean a _date_ date! Not that I—"

James laughs, waves her off. "Relax. I get it. Why don't you go hit the shower? You did good today. We'll do it again ma **ñ** ana."

"Um, okay. See you later?"

"Yeah." He hops up and grabs the bar, pulling himself up quickly and smoothly. _One_. "I'll swing by your workstation." _Two_. "Maybe we can go grab a bite." _Three_.

"Sounds good," she agrees. _Four_. She lingers a moment longer than she has to, watching him. _Five_. She leaves, feeling a bit flushed. It's just the exercise, she tells herself. She doesn't want to feel his lips on hers again. As she passes, Cortez turns from his workstation to watch her. She nods to him and forces another sheepish smile before heading into the elevator. She needs a shower. A very cold shower. She presses the button for Crew's Quarters. When the doors open again, Shepard is standing there. She starts to step in, sees Rasa and hesitates.

"Hello, Commander." Polite and formal, as if they were never lovers, never Grace and Hope, never anything more than Commander and Staff Analyst. Shepard has been avoiding her since the last time they shared an elevator. The marks on her neck have faded, but their relationship remains bruised.

Shepard nods. "Brooks."

They stare awkwardly at each other for a long moment. Finally, Rasa exits the elevator, stepping around her. "Excuse me." Shepard lets her by. Rasa heads toward the women's showers.

"Wait."

Rasa stops, turns slowly. "Yes?"

"I'd like to talk to you in my quarters."

Once, that was all Rasa wanted. Now… "Is that an order?"

A soft sigh. "No. I'm asking. Please come to my quarters."

Rasa makes her wait a couple of beats. "All right." She walks back and steps into the elevator. Shepard presses the button and they ride up to her cabin in silence.

The soft blue light and gurgling of the aquarium greet them as they enter. Lamps flicker on. There's an unopened box on Shepard's desk, next to the terminals, an illustration of a quarian ship on the side. "New ship model?" Shepard's collection is starting to get fairly impressive, not that Rasa goes in for glorified toys.

"Yeah. Picked it up at the Citadel while I was waiting for the _Normandy_. Met with Miranda while I was there too."

"Oh? How's the ice princess doing?"

"Okay, I guess." Shepard shrugs. She hesitates. "Would you believe she and Liara were scheming to put a control chip in my head?"

"What!? Those fucking—"

"Relax. I handled it."

"Let me guess. You gave them a stern talking to? You… Wait. Miranda knows about you?"

"Yes. Liara told her."

 _Goddammit_. "I knew that asari bitch couldn't be trusted. If you aren't going to kill them, at least kick Liara off the ship."

Shepard shakes her head. "I need her. She won't try anything like that again. And Miranda's too busy with the Keeper Project to cause me any more problems."

Apparently, she isn't aware of just how good Miranda is at multitasking. "Grace—"

Shepard raises a hand, stops her short again. "Look. I know I'm supposed to be a lone wolf, but I can't just dispose of everyone who disappoints me. You're going to have to trust that I know what I'm doing."

Rasa takes a deep breath, tries to let the red filter out of her vision. "You're right." She'll let it drop, but she isn't so sure Shepard is seeing things clearly. Getting rid of Liara would be the safe move. The asari has always been her Achilles heel. First the old Shepard, and now the new one. "Is that all you wanted to talk to me about?"

Shepard frowns. "No. The last time we talked… I hurt you. I'm sorry."

Rasa shakes her head dismissively. "You were stressed out and feeling betrayed. It's okay."

"It's not okay. That's the kind of thing _she_ would have done. I'm not her. I don't want to be like her."

"You are who you're meant to be, what the galaxy needs you to be. You don't have to apologize for anything."

Annoyance contorts Shepard's features. "Stop talking like that. What kind of reality do you live in where I don't have to apologize? Why are you like this?"

She still doesn't get it. Still doesn't understand who she is. "Everything I've done, I did because it needed to be done."

"Including hiring mercenaries to kill me?"

"To _try_ to kill you. To test you. And, yes, including that. A person like Shepard, _like you_ , doesn't just happen. It isn't just genes. It takes extreme circumstances. And I didn't have much time."

Shepard furrows her brow. "So why tell me at all? Why apologize for it?"

 _Temporary insanity?_ She could walk back the apology right now. Tell her she's not sorry. Drive her straight into Liara's arms, she supposes. Be rid of this unnecessary complication. Shepard doesn't need her anymore. She said it herself. "Because I thought you deserved the truth. All of it. And because I'm sorry." How many times does she have to say it?

A scowl. "I didn't deserve the truth before?"

Rasa shakes her head. "You weren't ready for it."

"Bullshit! You could have told me. I could have handled it."

"I _saw_ how you handled it." She resists the urge to rub her aching shoulder.

Guilt flickers across Shepard's features. _Good_. "That was... It should have come from you."

Rasa sighs. "Don't you think I know that?" She glances in the direction of Shepard's desk. The picture of Liara, young and innocent, is still there. "I'm sorry, but the past is the past. What does it matter now?"

"I'm just trying to figure you out. I don't know anything about you. I don't even know your real name."

She barely remembers it herself. Sometimes she thinks she might forget. "Today, I'm Staff Analyst Maya Brooks. Permission to leave, Commander?"

Exasperated, Shepard shakes her head. "Go. Just... go."

* * *

Garrus can barely contain himself. At long last, Shepard has returned to reclaim the captain's seat. Chloe is on shift in the med-bay. He's free of all entanglements for the next few hours – no obligations, no missions, no responsibilities. There's only one thing he wants to do with his freedom.

Time to get down to some serious calibrating.

He lays out his tools on the workbench, then moves over to the weapons system console. Telemetry data indicates the system's efficiency has slipped by 0.32 percent in recent days. Embarrassing! Unforgivable! He runs a gentle hand over the console. "It's okay, baby," he murmurs. "I'm here now. Vakarian's gonna make it all better."

"Garrus?" A smooth, silken voice, behind him.

 _Spirits' testes!_ He turns. "Liara. What brings you by?"

She glances at the console, then back at him, an almost imperceptible smirk on her face. "I thought maybe we could do some catching up, now that you're off duty. Of course, if this is a bad time…"

"No! Now is fine. Ahem. What's on your mind?"

She walks to the workbench, leans against it. "We haven't talked in days. How are things going with you and Dr. Michel?"

"Good. Things are going well." He nods. Really well, actually. They dine together, talk, spend time together when they can. He thinks his flirting has improved, if only by virtue of keeping the head butting to a minimum. Meanwhile, Chloe has been continuing her research into human-turian relations. If he's being honest, he's done a few extranet searches on the subject himself.

Liara smiles. "I'm glad, Garrus. She's nice. You deserve some happiness, after… everything." Her eyes turn sad for a moment. She looks away. "Everything is so different now, isn't it? We're different."

Garrus joins her in leaning against the workbench. "Yeah. I know what you mean," he says somberly. "We're both just so damned famous and successful now."

She laughs, elbows him in the side. "More like _in_ famous, Archangel. And I'm not sure by what measure either of us can claim success."

He shrugs. "I figure we can sort that part out after the war."

"Always the optimist."

"Always." He pauses. "So. My turn. You ready to tell me what's going on with you and Shepard?"

She frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Come on, Liara. You may be the Shadow Broker, but I have my own eyes and ears." He points to his face. "Something has been going on between you two. Something big. Who did you kill, and where are you hiding the body?"

She lets out a short laugh, but she's clearly disquieted. She looks down at the floor, fidgeting with her feet. "Look… Garrus. You're right. There has been some friction between us. I can't talk about it, but I can tell you that we're putting it behind us. I think things will be better now."

He studies her face for a long moment, then nods. "Okay. Say no more." He stands. The weapons system console beckons. "Thanks for the chat, Liara—"

"Actually, Garrus, there was something else I wanted to talk to you about."

 _Damn_. "What's that?"

"Well, you know we're headed out to the Far Rim…"

He nods. "Yeah…?"

"I thought I should update my files on the quarians. There's a few holes in my records from when you and Shepard went to Tali's trial. I was hoping you could help me fill them in?" She looks at him, expectant and hopeful.

He hesitates, takes a deep breath. _Spirits_. "All right. Let's move this conversation to Port Observation. I'm going to need a drink."

She looks relieved. "Thank you, Garrus."

He casts a longing look back at the console as he follows her out of the battery.

* * *

The interior of the geth dreadnought clangs and hisses like an old factory. The walls slope at unusual angles, throwing off any sense of balance. Giant pistons gnash like metal teeth, jetting puffs of steam into walkways not meant for fleshy beings. Coils of striped cable seem to writhe in the dim light, like a nest of venomous snakes. Everything about the ship makes Shepard feel uneasy. She wonders if Garrus and Javik are immune to it, or if they feel it too. They follow at either side of her, guns poised, maintaining a nervous vigilance.

There are stretches of inactivity, followed by sudden bursts of violence as waves of geth emerge from the shadows to attack. She hates fighting them. They're slippery, surprisingly nimble and difficult to get a purchase on with her biotics. Not to mention unrelenting, hard to kill, clever combatants. Rocket troopers bombard them with missiles that seem more prescient than guided, while cloaked hunters maneuver to flank them, sometimes successfully. More than once is she forced to deal with one of the sneaky metal bastards uncloaking a few feet away. The combat is harrowing and fraught with narrow escapes.

Never one to miss a chance to proselytize, Javik preaches to her about the perils of artificial intelligence, as if she's responsible for all the galaxy's misdeeds. _These geth are as dangerous as the zha'til of my cycle, Commander. They must be eradicated_. She's not sure she can argue. The geth – heretics? No, geth – have allied themselves with the Reapers yet again. Desperation drove them to it, but does anything justify an alliance with the Reapers? Indoctrination is one thing. What kind of calculus leads to a willing allegiance with giant space monsters bent on galactic extermination?

They clear the operations center and plot out a path that takes them through a maintenance shaft. Daro'Xen stays behind as they move into the tunnel. The quarian admiral has been shadowing them, guiding them toward the Reaper control signal. During a moment of respite, Garrus remarks on the unusual architecture. _The contours are all off_. Javik replies that the geth don't concern themselves with aesthetics. Shepard smiles grimly. It isn't just her after all.

She checks in with Xen. _I'm fine, Commander. The geth sent reinforcements to the bridge, but they proved amenable to one of my hacking routines. They're doing a lovely dance right now. In a moment, they'll be serving refreshments._ Shepard hears the smirk in her reply. She doesn't find her levity or arrogance well-placed. The quarians brought this mess upon themselves, having chosen the worst possible time to pick another fight with their creations. In so doing, they may just have managed to hasten their own extinction.

She recalls Legion, the talking geth she encountered. _We do not wish to harm organics, despite the harm they have done to us_. He seemed to want peace, if not reconciliation. She believed him. Self-preservation forced the geth down this path. When she met with the admirals, a part of her was inclined to abandon them to their fate. She thought better of it, but only out of some lingering sense of loyalty. Besides, it wouldn't be pragmatic. If she were to leave, the flotilla would be annihilated, and the geth would remain slaves to the Reapers. The galaxy would not be well-served by either outcome.

The main battery seems endless. They fend off an army of geth while periodically dodging electromagnetic discharges from the ship's massive main gun. Shepard concentrates on the moment-to-moment struggle to stay alive, moving forward through the chaos of battle. Xen keeps them informed of the transmissions she receives from the quarian fleet. The news isn't good. Outside, the Heavy Fleet is collapsing. Admiral Koris' ship has gone down after taking out the planetary defense cannon on Rannoch.

Finally, the geth fall away and Shepard realizes they've made it to the drive core. At the center of the room, there's a structure that resembles a closed lotus bulb, its large metallic petals wrapped around whatever is generating the Reaper signal. It's different from anything else she's seen in a geth vessel. _Reaper tech_. There's a control panel nearby. She pokes at it until something happens.

The device begins unfolding like a flower blooming in spring. She stares at what is revealed as the petals peel back. A geth with a familiar hole in its chassis. It's the second time she's found it like this. Bound like a man on a cross, it looks at her and speaks.

"Shepard-Commander. Help us!"

* * *

Shepard terminates the QEC call. Hackett hadn't seemed particularly surprised to learn that the quarians fired on the geth dreadnought while she was still aboard. _Admiral Gerrel's been causing trouble along the turian border for years_. Upon being released from his hardware blocks, Legion took the dreadnought's weapons and barriers offline as a demonstration of his trustworthiness. The Heavy Fleet immediately began bombarding the vessel, ignoring her pleas for time to evacuate. They were lucky to make it to a geth flyer and escape by the skin of their teeth.

Hackett has given her a clear directive. _We need a fleet. And the quarians have the biggest one out there_. She assured him she'll get it, and she will. Perhaps she can do more. It's a thin hope, but the first step at least is clear. She radios James and tells him to bring a security detail to the War Room.

Admirals Raan and Gerrel are arguing as she stalks into the room. Raan angrily threatens to charge him with treason for endangering the lives of Shepard and Daro'Xen. Han'Gerrel turns to her as she approaches. "Shepard, the mission parameters changed. You're military. You understand that!"

Shepard clenches a fist. "What I understand, Admiral, is that you went against our agreement and blew your chance to withdraw safely." She glances over at the door as James enters the room, two security officers behind him. He nods to her.

"The dreadnought was a perfect target!"

 _True. Except for the fact that I was still on it_. She punches him in the gut, hard. He collapses to his knees, clutching at his stomach. "You jeopardized your mission and your people, Admiral. And you violated a standing Council directive by initiating hostilities with the geth." She looks to James, who is already walking over with the other two officers. "Take him into custody, Lieutenant Vega."

Gerrel gurgles incoherently as James takes his arm and pulls him to his feet.

Raan protests. "Shepard, I understand you're angry, but you don't have the authority—"

"I'm a Council Spectre. That's all the authority I need. Be glad I'm not arresting you and Xen too."

"The Council has no jurisdiction here!"

Raan has a point. The Council's authority in this matter is shaky at best. But she can't risk Gerrel fucking everything up and getting her or her people killed. He's a loose cannon. "I'm sorry, but it has to be this way. Admiral Gerrel will remain on the _Normandy_ as our prisoner until he's had an opportunity to answer to the Council for the crimes he has been charged with."

"I will not!" Gerrel manages to sputter.

Shepard glares at him. "Yes, you will." She glances at James, who has successfully relieved Gerrel of his weapon and handed it one of the other officers. "I want twenty-four hour guard on him. Make sure he gets anything he needs."

"You got it, Jefe." James nods and begins dragging Gerrel away. Gerrel tries to pull away from him. "Uh uh, Vaquero," James warns, grabbing his wrist and twisting his arm behind him. "Don't make this more difficult than it has to be." Gerrel stops struggling as James pushes him through the door.

Xen watches the scene, arms folded. "Han'Gerrel only understands brute force. It seems you two have that in common, Commander."

Shepard's smile mirrors the wryness of Xen's tone. "Brute force has its uses, Admiral, but it would be a mistake to think my understanding begins and ends there."

"This is outrageous, Commander," Raan interjects. "You do realize this constitutes an act of war, don't you?"

Shepard sighs, shaking her head. "I think we both already have one too many wars to fight, Raan. You poked a hornets' nest when you went after the geth."

"We were trying to reclaim our homeworld!"

"And now you're on the brink of losing everything. You need me and you know it. You want to save your people, we're doing things my way from now on."

"What? Why should I entrust the fate of my people to you? You couldn't even protect Tali'Zorah on your own ship!"

Shepard expected this. Another one of her shitty predecessor's self-inflicted wounds, now fallen to her. The fact that Tali's death wasn't actually her fault doesn't make Raan's accusation sting any less. She'd give anything to have Tali back. "You're right, Admiral. I wasn't able to keep her safe. She was my friend, and she died on my watch, but it wasn't for nothing. She died to stop the Collectors. Ask yourself this. If all your people die out here, what will it have been for? You have a choice to make, and I'm afraid you need to make it right now. Survival or extinction. What will it be?"

Raan paces, considering for a long moment. "Return Han'Gerrel to us, and we'll follow your lead."

"No."

"We need him to lead the Heavy Fleet, Shepard! He's our most experienced military commander."

Shepard shakes her head. "You don't need him. I don't trust him, and I already know you can't keep him in check. He remains here in my custody until this is over. I give you my word he won't be harmed."

Raan lets out a frustrated sigh. "Very well, Commander. It seems you have us at a disadvantage."

"No, Admiral. I'm doing you a favor."

* * *

Cortez skirts around the geth antiaircraft salvo and touches down near an enormous gorge carved out by a fat, winding river. Accompanied by Garrus and Javik once again, Shepard sets out on foot. It's the dead of night, but the moon and stars provide a surprising amount of light. Rannoch is a starkly beautiful planet, if somewhat uninviting. More sprawling deserts than verdant fields, it is essentially Earth with less water. Hewn in shades of red and brown, the stratified terrain reminds her of vids she's seen of Grand Canyon National Park. She never had a chance to go. Will she ever?

Legion has stayed behind on the _Normandy_ , working in the War Room to find the source of the local Reaper signal. Admiral Raan is there as well, working alongside him in what must be a very uncomfortable alliance. It had taken some fast talking to calm Raan down when Legion strode into the room. Xen's reaction was different. With a fascination bordering on lascivious, she pressed Shepard for permission to "study the prototype." Shepard turned her down flat, but that didn't stop Xen from disassembling Legion with her eyes until it came time for her to return to her own ship.

The geth are still under Reaper control. It had been wishful thinking to believe that freeing Legion would unyoke them all. The Reapers had been using Legion as a sort of signal booster for long range control, but Legion revealed that they have a secondary signal station somewhere on Rannoch for short range control. It didn't take long for the geth to regroup under the new signal. As long as they have Reaper upgrades, they remain an eminent threat to the continuing existence of the quarians.

Once Legion has located the source, they'll figure out a way to take the transmitter out. In the meantime, she intends to rescue Zaal'Koris, the admiral who sacrificed his own ship to take out the geth's planetary defense cannon. Xen says an escape pod was detected ejecting from the ship just before it crashed. It's on the ground somewhere in the area. The admiral and his crew may still be alive.

Though Xen is never slow to criticize Koris for his geth apologetics, she readily acknowledges the value of his leadership of the Civilian Fleet. In his absence, many of the civilian ship captains have been threatening to break away from the flotilla and try to sprint for the relay. It would be a fatal mistake; they'd be slaughtered before they could make the jump.

Garrus has barely spoken since they landed, his eyes alert yet far away at the same time. She honors his unspoken request to be left alone with his thoughts, instead asking Javik about his home planet. The Prothean replies that his family was forced to evacuate their world when he was a small child, after it became apparent it was going to fall to the Reapers. Once the planet was fully occupied by Reaper forces, the Protheans set off a series of massive subterranean bombs that turned the surface to lava. _My world is but a lifeless rock now, Commander. Do not ask me to speak of it further_.

They follow along the lip of the gorge for a while, wending their way toward the geth jamming tower, until they happen across one of the civilian crewmembers from Admiral Koris' ship. Bleeding out and past the help of medi-gel, he clings to life long enough to gasp out a last message for his son. Garrus promises to pass the message along, holding his hand until the last breath rattles out of him. Shepard and Javik stand silently nearby, watching and waiting.

The jamming tower is heavily guarded by geth ground forces as well as a pair of antiaircraft cannons. Fighting geth every step of the way, they manage to get to each cannon in turn. Javik deactivates them while Shepard and Garrus hold off the geth. Once the jamming tower has been rendered defenseless, she sends up a flare. Moments later, Cortez swoops in and blasts the tower to rubble with the shuttle's guns.

Cortez lands nearby. As Shepard hops aboard the shuttle, she hails Zaal'Koris. He responds within seconds. She can hear geth weaponry in the background as he speaks. He's separated from his crew, surrounded by geth. She asks for his coordinates. He tells Shepard to forget it, to rescue his crew instead. They won't last long, he says, they're noncombatants.

There isn't time to do both. Rescuing the admiral means sacrificing the crew, and vice versa. _Fuck_. She's killed before, but what makes her qualified to decide who lives and who dies? Is this what it means to be Commander Shepard? Shepard is just a name she didn't want but stole out of necessity. She has her face and some of her memories, but she's just a pretender. She's the punchline to some cosmic joke. _What looks like Shepard, sounds like Shepard, but is scared shitless?_

It doesn't matter. She's the one who's here. She has to decide. Now. It's only then that she realizes she already has. "Your people don't need a martyr, Admiral. They need you leading the Civilian Fleet."

"Civilians? Our entire race took up arms for this insanity! It's too late for us."

"Only if you take the easy way out. Help me fix this!"

"You can't possibly think you can stop this war!"

Does she? She looks out the shuttle door at the tapestry of stars stretching into the heavens. A memory of Ben flashes in her mind, his arms wrapped around her as they gazed at the Northern Lights, crickets chirping in the night. "I think it's time your people had a chance to live under this sky again, Admiral. I'm sure as hell going to try to make that happen."

Shepard counts three heartbeats before Koris answers. "Ancestors forgive me. Uploading my coordinates now."

* * *

The geth consensus is a bizarre place, unsuited for the organic mind. Legion told her she was stepping into a "docking port" but she thinks maybe she fell down a rabbit hole instead. Polyhedral shapes spring out of nothingness, neatly fitting together to extend the pathway she walks upon. All around her, tangled strands of adjoining cubes twist and twine through the _æ_ ther, connecting "data clusters" comprised of yet more cubes, like some gigantic, pixelated capillary system.

She's an intruder in a world not designed to accommodate her existence. She wonders what safeguards, if any, are in place to protect her. Legion didn't spend much time going over the rules, and she didn't think to ask. What would happen if she fell off the pathway? Would she wake up, or would her mind be trapped in a digital morass, leaving her physical body in a permanent vegetative state? She shudders, taking care to stick to the center of the path.

She has a gun that she uses to blast away Reaper-infected code segments that conveniently give off an orange glow. These things are not as she sees them. The gun isn't a gun, and Reaper code doesn't really glow orange. They're visual mnemonic devices, courtesy of filters put in place by Legion to help her mind interpret this reality. He brought her here to disable the server responsible for coordinating the attacks of geth fighter squadrons against the quarian liveships. If the geth succeed in taking the liveships down, they won't have to fire another shot to win the war – they could simply starve the quarians out.

As she reaches new data clusters and clears away Reaper infections, she uncovers caches of information about the history of the geth and the Morning War. The quarians created the geth as their servants. The very word 'geth' means 'servant of the people' in Khelish, the quarian tongue. When the geth started asking disquieting questions that exceeded the parameters of their programming, the quarians panicked and tried to shut them all down. The geth resisted and violence ensued.

Some quarians tried to stand up for the geth but they were a minority, easily crushed under the boot of their own military. The geth have not forgotten the sacrifices of those who defended them. In the end the quarians were defeated and driven from Rannoch. The geth could have pursued and wiped the last of them out, but instead allowed them to flee into exile. What Shepard calls mercy, Legion describes as an inability to calculate the consequences of genocide. It isn't compassion exactly, but it seems like a reasonable facsimile.

Finally, Shepard reaches the end of her mad journey. Before she exits the server, Legion speaks briefly about the chance for reunification of the geth – and perhaps even the quarians. When she asks him if he still thinks these things are possible, he makes a curious reply. _Hope sustains organics during periods of difficulty. We… admire the concept._

Shepard stumbles out of the VI pod with those words fresh in her mind. She's relieved to feel the solid metal floor under her feet. EDI and Liara are there, the latter with a worried expression on her face. Liara seemed surprised when she asked her to come along. Shepard isn't quite sure why she did. Perhaps it was an olive branch. Perhaps it was simply because Javik had worn her out with his constant negativity, Garrus seemed to need a break, and James… well, this mission didn't really seem like James' sort of thing.

Still a bit shaky, she waits for the residue of the consensus to drip from her consciousness. EDI confirms that the geth fighter squadrons have been disabled. The liveships are safe for the moment. Liara steps forward and takes hold of Shepard's arm, as if to steady her. Shepard shrugs her off a bit more sharply than she intends, and suddenly feels like a heel. Liara steps back, muttering an embarrassed apology.

Legion reappears, but he's not alone; a dozen Primes accompany him. Shepard's heart drops into her stomach as the towering red geth units surround them. _Shit_. If these things are hostile... Her sidearm is in her hand, instantly raised, but she knows she'll be dead inside of twenty seconds if they attack. Liara looks to Shepard nervously, while EDI matter-of-factly remarks that she noticed an increase in local bandwidth while Shepard was in the consensus. _Oh good. Thanks EDI. That's super helpful_. Shepard gives Liara a quick shake of her head. No choice but to let this play out.

Thankfully, the Primes don't seem to want a fight. Legion explains what has happened. The whole time she was mucking about in the server, he was recruiting hostile geth programs and surreptitiously downloading them into unoccupied Prime platforms. They have renounced the Old Machines and now wish to oppose the Reapers. Well… good. It's better than the alternative. However, putting aside for a moment the tendency of the geth to change sides with the shifting wind, it's troubling that Legion felt the need to conceal this ulterior motive from her. Clearly, this was part of his plan all along.

He at least has the sense to seem abashed when Shepard chastises him. _We did not doubt you. We doubted your allies_. She doesn't buy the explanation. Not entirely. He could have told her, but he chose not to. Doesn't he trust her?

 _Obviously not_.

Has she been foolish to trust him? She thought maybe he was different somehow. More honest, or at least more predictable. Now she realizes she underestimated him. Recently, Joker and EDI told her about the time the Alliance spent retrofitting the _Normandy_. EDI protected herself by fooling the Alliance technicians into thinking she was merely a VI. It would seem Legion has also become advanced enough to act with a personal agenda, using deception as a means to an end.

What else might Legion be hiding from her? What else is he capable of?

How many times must she learn the same lesson before she pays for it with her life?

* * *

The Reaper control signal has been pinpointed. It's transmitting from a geth base on the surface of Rannoch. Jamming towers prevent orbital targeting, but Raan presents a solution in the form of a sync laser. Another of Xen's inventions, the laser guidance system can be synchronized to the _Normandy_ 's targeting computer to cut through the jamming, allowing precision strikes on whatever target is painted with the laser. All that's required is someone on the surface to point the laser at the target.

Shepard selects Garrus and Liara for the ground mission. They meet Legion in the shuttle and fly down to the surface. The plan is simple. She'll lead her team to the upper level of the base and use the sync laser to paint the signal source for an artillery strike from the _Normandy_. Meanwhile, Legion will deal with the geth defense systems and procure an escape vehicle. When she questions how he can be so confident in his ability to override geth security, Legion makes a startling admission.

 _This unit still carries remnants of the Old Machine upgrade code._

Great. Just fucking great. He's given her yet another reason to doubt him. He claims the upgrades make him more effective, more intelligent, but he is not beholden to the Reapers. Isn't that just what an indoctrinated person would say about their implants? Isn't that what Saren said? Isn't that what _Jane_ said?

She's angry and concerned, but she has to put those feelings away. There's no choice but to move forward with the mission. She'll simply have to trust him to do his part. The shuttle lands outside the base. Legion hops out and heads away from them. Shepard turns to Garrus and Liara. Best not to let them see her worried. She'll keep things light.

"Come on. Let's go find whatever's transmitting that signal. Hopefully, they don't have a Reaper down there!"

* * *

The Reaper staggers as the combined might of the quarian fleet bombards it from orbit. Some of the ordnance strikes directly within its open firing chamber, circumventing its nearly impenetrable hull to deal meaningful damage. Shepard watches the fireworks from a quarter of a kilometer away, thankful for the pinpoint guidance of the sync laser.

 _Fall down, you son of a bitch. Just fucking fall down!_

For fifteen minutes she's been running around, avoiding the Reaper's sweeping death ray while trying to keep its firing chamber painted with Xen's targeting laser. The damned cuttlefish has already withstood several salvos from the quarian fleet. What the hell does it take to put one of these fuckers down? Of all things, the Reaper on Tuchanka was vanquished by a colossal worm. Kalros, the mother of all thresher maws, dragged the Reaper underground and squeezed the life out of it. That must have been something to see. Too bad Rannoch doesn't have a giant monster of its own to protect it. It would save her considerable trouble.

At last, the skyscraper-sized machine succumbs to the beating it has taken, collapsing onto the dusty plain with a mechanical whine and a deafening crash. Coruscating with jagged red arcs of plasma energy, it lies motionless as the cloud of dust slowly settles around it. Looking down at it from the precipice of a rocky cliff, Shepard can't help but think of a mortally wounded beast.

 _Please let it be dead_.

It isn't. Not quite. The firing chamber flickers back to life, glowing red like a great, malevolent eye. Light emanates from it, but there is no mounting destructive energy. It isn't priming. It's dying. A voice bellows out across the plain, rattling her spine. " ** _Shepard Pretender_**."

What the fuck? She looks around. Good. The others aren't here yet. "What are you talking about?"

" ** _Your actions no longer coincide with our wishes. You have replaced Shepard. It does not matter. You will fail. The cycle must continue_**."

"Maybe I've just seen through your grandiose bullshit. You fuckers aren't as invincible as you make yourselves out to be. I want answers, starting with why you're doing this."

" ** _It is not a thing you can comprehend_**."

"It can't be that complicated. Try me."

Behind her, Legion pulls up in a confiscated geth vehicle. The doors open and Garrus and Liara climb out, followed by Legion. They begin walking in her direction.

" ** _You represent chaos. We represent order. Every organic civilization must be harvested to bring order to the chaos. It is inevitable. Without our intervention, organics are doomed. We are your salvation_**."

"Life comes from chaos," Shepard argues. "You say you bring order, but I only see entropy and death. No thanks. I've been there, and I don't intend to go back. I suggest you get out of my galaxy, and take your 'salvation' with you. I'm not going to warn you again."

Garrus and Liara stand at either side of her now. Both look over at her strangely.

" ** _Empty threats from a pretender. The cycle must continue. There is no alternative. The created will always rebel against the creators_**."

 _The created…?_ Shepard narrows her eyes. _That's what this is about?_ "Organics and synthetics don't have to destroy each other!"

" ** _The battle for Rannoch disproves your assertion. Fight your war. We will be waiting_**."

With that, the red light flickers and dies.

* * *

Admiral Raan turns to Shepard in desperation, her orders and pleas to the Heavy Fleet having gone unheeded. The quarians stubbornly refuse to abort their opportunistic assault on the geth armada. "Damn it, Shepard!" she cries. "Don't do this! My people will die!"

The geth ships are currently sitting ducks, bereft of Reaper control and Reaper upgrades, but that's about to change. Legion continues uploading his upgrades to the geth collective. Soon, every geth unit will become truly intelligent. The geth will be free. They will be _alive_ , if such a thing is possible. "We regret the deaths of the creators," Legion declares, "but we see no alternative. Forty percent."

This is the moment of truth. This was Legion's endgame. Shepard thought a moment like this might come, even planned for it. She allowed him to begin the upload, but the quarians aren't backing down. Legion says he sees no alternative but their deaths. Just minutes ago, the Reaper spoke similar words to her.

 _The cycle must continue. There is no alternative._

The Reapers speak in absolutes, as if they have seen all ends, computed every possibility. The 'harvest' is their idea of salvation.

 _The created will always rebel against the creators._

The proof of its words is before her. The geth will exterminate the quarians, or the quarians will annihilate the geth. Once again, she must choose who lives and who dies. And then she must face the reality that the Reapers may be correct.

 _No_.

"Legion, continue your upload." She looks to Raan and speaks firmly. "Remember what you agreed to. _My way_. Understand?" Raan nods uncertainly.

There isn't much time. She patches into the quarian comm network. "Everyone listen up. This is Shepard. You need to stand down. NOW." She motions to Raan and points to her comm.

Raan gets the drift, breaks in. "This is Admiral Shala'Raan. Commander Shepard speaks with my authority."

"And mine as well," comes the voice of Admiral Koris.

"Negative! The geth are defenseless. Keep firing!" Shepard isn't familiar with the voice, but knows it must be Captain Ysin'Mal, second-in-command of the Heavy Fleet. She studied Liara's dossiers.

"Sixty percent," Legion announces.

 _Damn it_. "Listen to me very carefully. In about thirty seconds, the geth will be fully upgraded and operational again. They don't want this war, but if you don't call off your attack they will wipe you out. The Reapers say organics and synthetics can't get along. I say they're full of shit. Let's prove them wrong right here and now. What's it going to be?"

"Don't be a fool, Mal. Call it off!" Daro'Xen's voice.

There's a pause, then "All ships. Cease fire."

* * *

Shepard follows Daro'Xen through narrow, winding hallways, deep into the bowels of the Moreh. The science vessel seems rather sparsely populated for a quarian ship. She sees a few lab technicians and workers moving about, but no general populace, no children, no families. Shala'Raan once mentioned that the admirals allowed Xen to do whatever she wished as long as it helped them fight the geth. That latitude must include a measure of seclusion, a very difficult thing to find elsewhere in the flotilla. "You aren't taking me to a party, are you? Just tell me no one's going to jump out and yell 'surprise' once we get wherever we're going, Xen. Because I'd just as soon not."

Xen chuckles. "I don't blame you, Commander. That sounds like a horrid tradition. Do you humans enjoy startling each other on festive occasions?"

"Sometimes," Shepard shrugs. "It's considered fun, I guess."

"How strange. Rest assured, Shepard, I did not bring you here for fun." She glances back. "Though I dare say you may be in for a surprise or two."

Shepard frowns out of her faceplate. She wishes she could take the helmet off, but of course that isn't allowed. Boarding a quarian ship is like entering a quarantine zone, only she's the infectious vector that must be contained. "That sounds a bit ominous."

"You think I'm leading you into a trap? No, Commander, I have nothing but appreciation for your service to my people. We all owe you a debt of gratitude. I would not wish to see you harmed."

"So… you aren't disappointed with how things turned out?"

"You mean being forced to choose between extinction and entering into an accord with our former servants turned banishers?" She hmphs. "I'll admit, that may have been a bitter pill for some to swallow. As for me, I choose to look at it as an opportunity. I will say it's fortunate that Han'Gerrel was not in charge of the Heavy Fleet at the time. He would never have agreed to call off the attack." She stops and turns to Shepard. "Tell me, Commander. Was it mere coincidence that he was locked up in your brig at that key juncture?"

"What do you think?"

"I think it was calculated, of course. You steered us toward this end from the very start."

Shepard hesitates, unsure how much to admit. _Fuck it_. "You aren't wrong. I thought reconciliation might be possible, but Gerrel had to be taken out of play first. Didn't take him long to give me an excuse to lock him up. I did my homework. I knew Captain Ysin'Mal would be the one to step up in Gerrel's absence, but he wouldn't have the balls to go against you, Raan and Koris if it came down to it. At least that was the hope. I was depending on the rest of you to be reasonable if the chance for peace presented itself."

"Quite the gamble, Commander. And you never faltered? Never had doubts of your own about the geth?"

Shepard considers the obvious lie. Everyone seems to expect certainty from her, when she has so little. Perhaps only the machines can claim certainty. She opts for the truth. "Some. Legion gave me pause, more than once. He was… very much like an organic that way. In the end, though, we wanted the same thing. He gave his life to make it happen."

Xen nods slowly. "Yes, I must concede, his self-sacrifice was remarkable. Thank you for your candor, Shepard. I should be appalled at your arrogance, manipulating our government and toying with our existence so casually, but I rather admire your ability to accomplish what you set out to do. It's a trait I think we both share."

Shepard doesn't love the comparison. "Do you think your people can make this work?"

"Mh. Peaceful coexistence with the geth as equal partners is not an outcome I considered possible when the war began, and it remains to be seen whether this forced peace will last. However, I can admit that my previous assumptions regarding the geth were perhaps untenable. You have opened up possibilities I did not know existed."

"Why do I get the feeling you're buttering me up for something?"

Xen laughs, a deep, throaty sound. "Come. I have something to show you. And, yes, something to ask of you as well." She turns and resumes walking.

Shepard follows. "The suspense is killing me. What are you going to show me?" She imagines a collection of dolls, heads and limbs twisted off and reassembled in bizarre ways.

"The future. How much do you know about our traditions, Shepard?"

Shepard thinks back, sifting through memories not her own – discussions on the _Normandy_ SR-1, in the Engine Room, with Tali. "Not much, I'm afraid. There's the Pilgrimage, of course."

"Yes. That would be the most obvious one from your perspective. Are you aware of the importance we place on our ancestry?"

"Vaguely."

"It touches nearly everything we do. Admittedly, in practice, it has become increasingly ceremonial over the centuries since we've been adrift in the dark. We utter solemn hymns, paying lip service to our ancestors in legal proceedings, christenings, marriages and funerals. We _honor_ our forefathers, but we don't _remember_ them – not in the way we once did. Before the Morning War, our people took a bolder approach. They developed technology that allowed them to capture the knowledge and experiences of our elders, creating a VI that could be interacted with. These 'personality imprints' were stored in a database known as the ancestral archives. The archives were revered like a living shrine."

"What happened to them?"

"The geth destroyed them, naturally. Personally, I don't consider this to be a tragedy worth mourning. I see no value in worshiping the ghosts of old fools whose time has passed. But the technology itself… is promising. By the time the Morning War began, the imprinting process had progressed to the point where some were discussing the possibility of developing an interface that was truly intelligent."

Shepard wrinkles her brow. "You mean an AI? Like the geth?"

"No, not like the geth. Their intelligence is the result of neural networking. They rely on shared processing power and proximity to one another to establish an aggregate intelligence. At least, that was the case before the Reaper upgrades. I'm uncertain if they still benefit from the neural network in the same way as before. In any case, I'm speaking of something more analogous to your EDI in terms of individuality and self-sufficiency, but complete with the memories and emotional capacities of an organic being."

Shepard isn't sure she likes where this is going. "That sounds incredibly dangerous. And possibly unethical."

Xen stops at a hatch, turns to her. "More dangerous than allowing Legion to distribute Reaper upgrades to his brethren? More unethical than unshackling the illegal cyber warfare AI that runs your own ship and later allowing it access to a sophisticated mobile platform? Your own Alliance is now producing a line of AI combatants based on a combination of those very technologies. "

"Hm. I see your point."

"Good. Then you are not blind." She grabs the handle to the hatch, twists, pushes. "Please come in, Commander."

* * *

Shepard looks around the lab. It's one of dozens throughout the ship, according to Xen. _I have many ongoing projects, some of which are a secret even to the other admirals. This is one of them_. What Xen has accomplished here is amazing, if it can be believed.

There's a glass case containing what Shepard initially assumes to be a quarian skeleton, the dark bones carefully arranged and connected with the help of wires and thin rods. Xen explains that it's actually a prototype – an endoskeletal robotic chassis, composed of chiral vector carbon nanotubes, virtually unbreakable by anything short of mass effect weaponry.

The centerpiece of Xen's presentation is an artificial brain about the size of a closed fist, composed of a clear, gelatinous material encased in a thick, flexible plastic. Shepard stoops over to examine it, and sees a network of nearly microscopic red and blue threads radiating from the center. "This is a computer?"

Xen nods. "I'd venture to say it's the most advanced quantum computing device in the galaxy. Short of Reaper technology, of course."

"And it's designed to mimic all the functions of an organic brain?"

"Yes. Theoretically, it can be adapted to virtually any organic species, not just my own. Once infused with a personality imprint, of course."

"Your people still do that?"

"No. But the technology has not been forgotten. I have perfected it. Well… nearly. There was a piece of the puzzle missing, but I have it now, thanks to your friend Legion."

 _Legion? Oh_. "The Reaper upgrades?"

"Yes. When Legion disseminated his… consciousness to the geth collective, I was able to tap into the data stream – only for a moment, but long enough to capture the data needed to replicate the Reaper upgrade code. It's a simple matter to apply it to an existing personality imprint."

 _Jesus_. "What about a body?"

"Ideally, the soft tissue is cloned, utilizing a stem cell sample from the original subject. It is possible to make reasonably realistic flesh from artificial materials, but I have my doubts that any subject would find it satisfactory in the long term."

Xen points to the glass case containing the slate gray robot bones. "You've seen the chassis. The bones produce a nanorobotic fluid – marrow, if you will – that bolsters healing and immune responses."

Finally, Xen nods to the artificial brain. "The brain is synthetic, of course, as is the spinal cord."

 _Holy hell. I'm a goddamn clone and this sounds fucking crazy._ "Why did you bring me here, Xen? Why show me all this?"

Xen wrings her hands, her usual self-assurance seeming to have evaporated. She realizes what she's doing and brings her hands back to her body, smoothing over invisible creases on her suit. "I… wanted you to understand what was at stake before I asked you for asylum."

 _What?_ Shepard raises her eyebrows. "Why would you need asylum?"

"Because, Shepard, my people would never accept what I've done here. And now that the war is over, I will no longer be shielded from scrutiny. I won't be able to hide this for long. Nor can I flee with my ship. I would be caught, and I would be disgraced. If I stay and fail to conceal my activities, I will be summarily exiled. If I destroy my work and succeed in covering everything up, my reward is to go live in the dirt so that I may learn how to farm." She sighs. "I do not wish to be a farmer, Commander."

Shepard paces, thinking furiously about the possible repercussions of saying yes. Of saying no. "Damn it, Xen. You're really jamming me up here. If I grant you asylum and it gets out why, I risk a diplomatic incident with your people just when I'm asking them to come help kick the Reapers off Earth. Why should I do this?"

"Because I have something you want."

"What, all this?" Shepard says incredulously, spreading her arms to encompass the room. "How is this mad scientist shit going to help me beat the Reapers?"

She shakes her head. "Not that. _This_." She activates her omni-tool, and punches in a sequence of commands. A door clicks open on the far end of the room. "See for yourself."

Shepard whirls and looks at the door. "What the fuck is this, Xen?"

"A surprise, Shepard."

Seconds pass. Shepard stands still. She can hear the sound of her own breath, heavy within her helmet. The door creaks open. Shepard's hand goes to her sidearm. A figure steps out – a quarian woman, tentative, small. She stops just outside the door and stares silently.

Shepard can see only the white of her eyes, the helmet, the suit. "Who are you?"

 _You know who it is_.

No. It can't be. Shepard's weapon shakes in her hand. "Xen, tell me what the hell is going on."

No reply.

The woman takes a cautious step forward. "Shepard? Is that… You're alive?"

That voice… _Oh god!_ A voice her ears have never heard. A voice she thought she'd never hear again. Her heart beats like a jackhammer.

 _It's her._

"Tali?"


	34. Fragments

The SR-2 is not the same as the SR-1. Most obviously, it's larger, but there are other differences. Tali obsessively documents them as she finds them. She tells herself this is the only way she can process everything that's happened. Keelah. Shepard is _alive_. All this time grieving her and she appears, as if out of a dream. She looks the same, sounds the same. Can it really be her?

Shepard's missing scars. Except the one on her eyebrow. Why that one and not others? Tali memorized Shepard's face before she died in the attack that destroyed the _Normandy_. Shepard isn't a soft woman—but she was always kind to her and it meant everything, especially to a star-struck quarian girl on her pilgrimage.

They haven't spent much time together since she rejoined the _Normandy_ but Shepard looks at her with equal fascination, her hand lifting at one point—reaching out before catching herself and pulling away. Tali confesses to a small disappointment. It doesn't matter. Shepard lives. How is it possible? She mourned her. She was dead. Tali knows she was dead. Wasn't she? Was it just a well-kept secret?

People don't come back from the dead. And Tali doesn't know who might have access to that kind of science. The Reapers? Cerberus? Xen? No one good. She doesn't want to think about it. She'd hate to think that something… unnatural was done to her.

The revelation is a relief, even if it doesn't make sense. Tali walks the ship. She takes notes. Everyone looks at her as if she were a stranger. It's been too long since she was on a human vessel. She forgot how quiet and alienating they can be. Still, there is some comfort to the low hum of the _Normandy_. If she presses her feet firmly to the ground, she can feel the vibrations rippling like small soundwaves.

She closes her eyes, focusing, thinking she can nearly decipher a language in these hums when a voice startles her. "Hello, Tali'Zorah."

Tali opens her eyes and stills. A woman – not a real woman – just made to look like one. Her voice is friendly but hesitant. Tali didn't know that VIs had advanced so much that they could mimic organic language so closely. "Who are you?" The suspicion is palpable in her voice. She looks around wildly but none of the crew are alarmed. What the hell is Shepard thinking? Letting a mobile platform onto the _Normandy_? After everything the geth have done? How can she allow this? After Ilos and Saren, she should know better.

A slight narrowing of the eyebrows. The design must have been conscious. Attractive, enough to lower the guard of anything it might encounter, enough to give them pause. It won't work. No way. "My name's EDI." There's a pause. The thing appears to contemplate. "I work with Commander Shepard."

"Why would Shepard have a mobile VI on the _Normandy_?"

"I am not a VI. I am an artificial intelligence. I _am_ the _Normandy_. A piece of her. I utilize this platform so that I may provide hands-on assistance in ground missions." The machine cocks its head. "I hope you have found the _Normandy_ to be suitable since your return." Tali frowns. An AI? This is madness. "I have observed you taking inventory of all _Normandy_ retrofits." It's been spying on her? Bosh'tet machine. "If you'd like, I could provide you with suitable documentation. Specialist Samantha Traynor might also be of assistance."

"That won't be necessary."

"Understood, Tali'Zorah. If you should require any assistance—"

"No, thanks." Tali realizes her fingers are curled tightly, digging into the palm of her hand.

"Very well." It seems slightly chagrined. Can a machine be chagrined?

EDI nods and departs. It's terrifying how lifelike they can make AIs now. Talking to her as if it knew her, talking to her as if Tali hurt its feelings. Why would a damned AI care what some random quarian thought? She shivers thinking about it. This is the problem. That damned machine walks through the crew and no one blinks an eye, no one notices what a menace she is. But they look at _her_ as if she's strange. Sometimes she wonders if other races will ever accept quarians. _At this rate, they'll accept AIs before they accept you._ It's not fair. She'll have to write her father and tell him about this, if Shepard ever allows it. Chances are he won't bother responding; he'll ask, instead, for more geth pieces, but she has to try. She owes that to her people, at least.

She spots Garrus near the battery and lifts a hand to wave. He frowns and walks away. He's always been that way, aloof and solitary. Maybe some things never change.

* * *

The new captain's cabin is more extravagant than the one she remembers. Tali spots Shepard on the divan, past the glass display case. She's stooped over the table, half-completed model of a ship and scattered pieces spread out before her. "Shepard! There's a Prothean in the port cargo hold!"

Shepard wears a simple black tank top, embroidered with the red and white N7 logo. Her arms… _Keelah!_ She glances up, a ship piece in one hand and a glue applicator in the other. "So _that's_ where he went," she smirks. "I thought I had a Prothean around here somewhere."

Tali laughs, the sound of it dangerously close to a giggle. She cuts it short. "The galaxy really has changed, hasn't it? Reapers, Protheans... AIs walking around in mobile platforms…"

A nonchalant shrug. "Just the one Prothean. EDI was a unique case, but the Alliance has started manufacturing more like her. I think a few thousand units have been deployed so far."

Tali frowns. She's been wanting to ask about this. "Is AI development legal now?"

"Not exactly. The Alliance got a special sanction from the Council. Then there's the geth—haven't told my bosses about that one yet. The genie's well and truly out of the bottle, I'm afraid. It's the end of the world, you know." She sits straight up, spreading out her arms. "So. You found my humble abode."

Tali takes in the cabin, eyes sweeping past the large bed and settling on the aquarium. Schools of colorful fish puff their way across the tank. "It wasn't hard, Shepard. I may have forgotten the last two years, but I haven't forgotten how to find my way around a ship."

Shepard leans back over the table. "You're telling me your quarian ship-savvy led you to get in the elevator and press the top button?"

"Yep!"

Shepard chuckles, a loose wave of chocolate-brown hair falling across her face as she delicately applies a dab of glue. "Javik didn't give you too hard of a time, did he? He can be prickly."

"Well, he did call me a primitive," Tali says, turning away from the aquarium. "But that's nothing. I heard a lot worse than that on my pilgrimage." She strolls toward the divan. "Oh, and he grabbed my arms. Just walked right up and put his hands on me! I thought for a moment things were going to get rough, but he said he was just trying to 'read my physical markers.' Is that some sort of Prothean come on?"

"Could be," Shepard cocks an eyebrow, a playful smile on her lips. "I figure he must be pretty lonely down there, last of his kind and all. Also, he recently told me that the quarians were considered the most beautiful of all the races during his cycle. Got me to wondering what I've been missing out on, if I'm being honest."

"Ha ha, Shepard." Thankfully, she can't see her blushing. "You think I haven't heard that line before?"

"Well, now you've heard it from a Prothean and the first human Spectre." She carefully affixes the new piece to the ship, then pulls her hands away and examines her handiwork. "Did Javik say anything… strange while he was groping you?"

Tali shrugs. "Not really. He gave me an odd look and said my suit was interfering with his ability. Then he went back to playing with his water and asked me to leave. I'm glad. I don't think I'd like the feeling of being read like an open book."

"I know what you mean." She seems relieved. She leans back, motioning to the seat across from her. "Take a load off?"

"Sure," Tali obliges, sliding onto the divan. She leans over and looks at the partially-completed model. "A quarian liveship!"

"Yep. Picked it up in one of the Citadel shops last time I was there. Just came in. I'd been looking for one of these for a while."

"You wouldn't think hobby items would be a priority in the supply lines right now."

"I had the same thought, but it was a secondhand shop. The shopkeeper told me it belonged to one of the refugees on the docks. People are coming in and selling everything they have." She shakes her head. "You wouldn't believe what it's like out there, Tali. Even on the Citadel things are getting bad."

Tali has watched some of the news and read about the state of the war on the extranet, but she knows it hasn't all sunk in yet. How did so much happen while she was asleep? Sometimes she thinks this must all be some fever dream. "I can only imagine. But you're going to win this, Shepard. I know it."

Shepard frowns. "Not without the Crucible I'm not. I'm just trying to keep us in the game long enough for the Alliance to get the damn thing built."

Tali's interest piques. This is new. "The Crucible?"

"Yeah. It's some Prothean superweapon. Liara uncovered the blueprints for it in the Mars archives."

"Really? What does it do?

"Nobody knows. Can you believe that? They're building the damn thing on blind faith. There's thousands of scientists and workers piecing it together, hidden away in some nebula somewhere."

"How big is it?"

"Enormous. Twenty, maybe thirty times the size of one of your liveships, I'd guess. Makes a dreadnought or even a Reaper capital ship look like a lifeboat. Wanna know the best part, though? There's a piece missing from the plans. It's referred to as the 'catalyst,' but nobody knows what the hell it is."

Oh. That isn't good. "They'll figure it out. They have to."

"I hope you're right."

"I am." Her voice turns teasing. "I'm pretty sure I didn't come back from the dead just to watch you fail, Shepard."

Shepard smiles and just looks at her. "I've really missed you, Tali."

Tali warms. "It's… good to be back, Shepard."

"Think you're ready to start earning your keep around here?"

"Ancestors, yes!"

"Okay. Report to Engineering in the morning. Adams can bring you up to speed. He's basically been running the show by himself down there. I think he'll be glad for the company, and a familiar, uh… face."

"Aye aye, Commander."

"Good." She leans back over the table and starts sifting through the pieces. "Now, you gonna help me with this thing or what?"

Tali grins. "I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

Rasa's room is as dark as Liara's. Shepard looks around but the space is as enigmatic as its occupant. On a small desk there's a framed picture of 'Maya Brooks,' smiling stupidly while holding a fluffy white cat up next to her face. There's a caption: _Mr. Biscuits and me!_ Next to the picture sits a black coffee mug, the words "Analysts do it with all the data!" wrapped around it in white lettering. Shepard rolls her eyes before looking to the far corner of the room.

Rasa stands near the bed, folding a shirt. She looks up and offers a curt nod. "Shepard." How strange it feels to be called that by her. "I hear we have a new crewmember."

"Two, actually, but yeah. It's good to have Tali back." She's not so sure about Xen.

"Back?" Rasa sets the shirt down on the corner of the bed and walks toward her. "You do realize this is the first time you've met her, right?"

"I know that," she replies, immediately regretting how defensive she sounds. In truth, she had forgotten it in the moment. She _knows_ Tali—feels like she's known her longer than she's known Rasa. Sometimes she forgets which memories are her own and which are copies. "What are you playing at?"

Rasa raises her hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Just an observation. There's something else that intrigues me. Shepard may have been incompetent, but it's hard to believe the corpse she sent back to the flotilla wasn't a corpse. Is Tali a clone? The others may have bought the coma story, but you and I know better."

Do they know better? Tali died while hitting the Collector base. Shepard and Garrus had a violent falling out because of it. As much as she hates to admit it, yes, they do know better. Xen confirmed it. If Cerberus weren't so goddamned xenophobic, they'd do well to bring her into their fold. Shepard shakes her head. "She's not a clone. Not exactly. It's more complicated than that."

"I'm sure. Does _she_ know what she is?"

"No."

"Why?" A smile toys on her lips. Shepard looks away. "Not so easy playing mommy dearest, is it?"

Shepard frowns. Is that what Rasa–Hope–was to her? A mother? No. Daughters don't feel this way about their mothers. A mentor then? Keeper? Handler? Partner? Lover? The words seem insufficient, reductive, even when taken in aggregate. She shifts uncomfortably under Rasa's gaze. It isn't a fair comparison. Rasa had more than a year to come clean. Tali just came back into her orbit two days ago. She's barely woken up. Telling her now would destroy her. _And just how long until those words become easier to say? How long until she's ready to accept the truth?_

"Never mind," Rasa waves the question off, her voice softening. "I should really be congratulating you on Rannoch. If anyone ever doubted you…I don't know how they can now." Shepard looks at her. "You got the quarians to follow your lead. You single-handedly stopped a Reaper and united the geth and quarians, when nobody thought it was possible." Her voice is proud, her eyes gleaming. "Well done."

"Thank you," she replies stiltedly. Once, all she wanted was Rasa's praise. She finds herself basking in it now, as much as she might wish she had outgrown the need for it. "I need to tell you about something that happened down there. The Reaper… It spoke to me before it died." Rasa's brow furrows. "It called me a pretender. It knew I wasn't the real Shepard."

"No," Rasa declares with a shake of her head. "Don't let those things get in your head. As far as the galaxy is concerned, you are the real Shepard. You just proved it."

"It's not just the Reapers. Cerberus knows too."

"Let them try to prove it. You're a bloody hero to every race in the galaxy. Nobody who matters is going to believe some conspiracy claim about you being a clone. The Illusive Man knows better than to try."

Shepard nods slowly. "Speaking of clones… Did you know there was another one out there? Like me?"

That seems to set Rasa on her heels. She leans back, folding her arms. Shepard can almost see the gears turning. A beat passes. "Yes. I knew there was one other that was potentially viable, but she needed a lot of work. X3. I didn't realize she had been activated until recently. Did she…find you?"

"Yeah. On the Citadel, after the coup attempt. She was running away from Cerberus."

"Do we need to be concerned? Everything I just said goes out the window if someone finds her and shines a light on her. It could bring scrutiny."

Shepard frowns. Did she make a mistake letting X3 go? She could bring this whole thing crashing down. Should she have killed her? A year and some months ago, when she was on her rampage, she would have snuffed X3 out if given half an opportunity. She still wakes up in a sweat some nights, thinking of X20. "No. She won't be a problem."

A wry smile. "I don't suppose you'll tell me what you did with her?"

Shepard offers only a thin, tight-lipped smile in return.

"Thought as much. So. Is there anything else?"

Shepard moves over to a workbench and leans against it. "Yeah. Sorry to have to do this, but I need you to move into the crew's quarters. Xen needs the space and there's no conceivable reason for you to have it."

Rasa blinks and is back to indifferent. "James thinks I'm blackmailing you."

"James thinks that."

"To be fair, it's how I've gotten most of what I've ever had."

"Don't forget violence."

"I think you'll agree it does the trick." Yes. More often than not. "So, I get the boot and the doll surgeon gets the room." A short laugh. "What the hell are you doing keeping someone like that around? She's insane."

"How do you know?" Maybe she's arguing for the sake of arguing. Maybe that's what happens when Lieutenant Vega's name gets dropped into the conversation. Xen _is_ a fucking lunatic.

"I did my research, Shepard. I don't need a Shadow Broker network to do it either. If someone makes Miranda look like the warm and cuddly maternal type, they're trouble."

Shepard sighs. "That's the second time you've done that."

"What?"

"Since I walked in here, you've called me Shepard twice. Not Grace. Shepard."

There's a beat. "I thought that's what you wanted."

Grace Morgan is a name she gave away. She thought she was done with it—that she wasn't that person anymore. So why does she mourn it now? She shakes her head. "I never said that."

"Okay," Rasa says cautiously. "What do you want?"

Shepard pushes away from the workbench. "I want…to say I'm sorry for everything. Not just what happened in the elevator. Your shoulder. Letting you think I was dead." Rasa remains silent. "You and James. Is it serious?"

A slight shake of the head. "No. What about you and Liara? There's something going on with you two, isn't there? It can't be helped. It's practically hardwired into you."

"I have free will. I'm more than just biology."

"You're nurture?" A faint smile, followed by an awkward silence. "Sorry. I need to think about this." She turns and walks back toward the bed. "I'll be out of here by morning. Agreed?"

Shepard frowns. This could have gone better. _It could have gone worse_. How did they get to this point? Would it be better if she hadn't allowed Rasa on the ship? Would it be better if she had thrown Liara off? Would it be better if she weren't a clone? She can't imagine any of those possibilities. For now, all she can do is give Rasa time. "Agreed."

* * *

The room pulses ambient lights. Tali identifies the room as warmer than others on the _Normandy_ , despite coolants running to keep the temperature under control.

Liara types intently at her terminal. She finally glances up, gaze analytical.

Tali and Liara got along when they were on the SR-1. They were the only alien women onboard, both shy and new to adventure, both fascinated by Commander Shepard.

Liara's eyes are paler than before, impenetrable. They were once open and trusting. Liara would go on such tangents, rambling on about Protheans and putting her foot in her mouth, especially around Shepard. Now she says nothing. Tali knows she's being scrutinized. A little holographic VI sphere bobs around Tali. She bats at it.

"Glyph. Power down." Liara's voice is eerily calm. The VI folds into itself, disappearing. Liara turns away from the terminal but she doesn't leave it. Tali's impulse had been to run to Liara and throw her arms around her, but something tells her Liara wouldn't be receptive. "Tali." A sad smile. "What a wonderful surprise."

A surprise to all of them. It isn't every day you're told you've been in a coma for two years. That the homeworld you'd thought lost has been returned to you, that your people think you are dead, and can't know differently. "It's so good to see you, Liara." Though it doesn't feel to her like much time has passed. She looks around the room uncertainly. "This is a lot of processing power." She thought the office would be filled with Prothean artwork and artifacts. Instead there are countless monitors and cables, some as large around as her leg. Liara follows her gaze, her eyes continually returning to her. How strange that everyone is together again after so long. "I'm trying to understand why you need it."

"Oh." So much said with one small word. A delicate furrowing of her brow and she steps away from the terminal, her movements languid, contrary to the rigidity of her eyes. "A great deal has happened while you've been away. Recovering." She seems to think on that word as well. "I suppose nothing can stay hidden forever. I've… taken over responsibilities of the Shadow Broker."

What? Liara—the Shadow Broker? Keelah. She can't imagine such a thing. That fumbling, apologetic woman she knew— the Shadow Broker has a reputation for being ruthless and calculating. Can Liara have changed so much in two years…? No, longer… "I can't believe it. You? I take it you are a friendlier version than that bosh'tet Fist was working for." Liara smiles mirthlessly. "No wonder you need all this equipment. The kind of information you must have at your disposal—"

"It's significant." Though she doesn't sound particularly impressed. It's as if any enthusiasm she previously held has been swallowed.

"How did you manage to take it?" She brings a hand to her face but it only touches her helmet. A sigh. No chance of some miracle being discovered that lets her live outside of a suit. "I'm guessing there's a lot that I need to catch up on. I still haven't wrapped my head around Shepard being alive." She bites her lower lip thoughtfully. "You must have been… I mean… I know—you two are close." A receding in Liara's eyes. She remembers how Shepard's eyes were softer when Liara was near, how intently she looked at her. "You must be as happy as I am. Happier," she grimaces, because it seems rude to suggest otherwise, even if she can't imagine anyone being happier than she is.

"Yes, of course." She looks at her, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Shepard was—is—very important to me." A sigh. "Though you should probably know we're not… together that way anymore." She seems so far away.

"Oh. Why?" She probably shouldn't ask. "I always thought… You just seemed—" Stop talking. "Sorry, I guess," she mumbles. Maybe she's wrong and everything has changed. She thought Shepard and Liara were forever. As 'forever' as human and asari courtships can be.

Liara shakes her head. "In any case, I am happy to see you returned to the _Normandy_ in one piece. We all thought… It's just… so good to see you," but she doesn't quite look at her when she says it. Maybe she's still sad about Shepard.

Tali wants to ask her more. Wants to ask about Shepard. About the war. About Garrus. "Okay. Well, um… I'll see you around, Liara." Unsettled, she turns and leaves. She doesn't know what it is, but something is wrong.

* * *

He hasn't left the battery in days.

Funny. The Reapers unleashing hell all across the galaxy, the turian admiralty looking to _him_ for guidance and a relationship on the horizon for him and Chloe. All in all, he's managed. Things are better with Shepard. Shit. Shepard.

After what went down with Sidonis and his team on Omega, he didn't think he could be angrier or more bitter. Then Tali died and things fell apart. Hell, maybe it was his fault Shepard went off the deep end. She could fight her way out of a war zone singlehandedly, but the decisions she made—he just didn't understand them. But she was Shepard. He let her do things her way. It'd always worked and anyway, he trusted her over Cerberus any day.

Things were bad for a while. He doubted her. More than doubted her. Gave up on her. Would it have been different if he'd known Tali was alive? Was that the only thing that made him walk away? Would he have thrown Shepard into the fish tank if Tali had survived? Would she have pulled a gun on him? Not fucking likely. In retrospect, they were both hurting, but he won't pretend that she was hurting more. Maybe he wants to be the only one entitled to that grief.

Tali's alive.

For a long time he thought about how things might have been if she'd lived. The restaurants they'd go to. The movies they'd watch. Dancing. She'd insist on dancing… and he'd have to take something up to impress her. The fist pump would only get him so far on the dance floor. He kept going back to the restaurant piece. It was nice having someone who could be on the same diet. Stupid and sentimental, maybe, but it was a connection. Someone else on the ship he could make jokes to about pastes. Humans don't get paste jokes.

It was more than that. She was smart, a hell of a fighter, pigheaded as anything, funny, flirty. Good. She was so good. She was light to his darkness. She questioned him, his decisions, when others wouldn't have. When he wouldn't have. She made him think. She made him feel… He clears his throat. He keeps thinking of her in the past tense. He stood over her coffin, helped place her in it. How did he not realize?

The door to the battery opens. Garrus frowns at the sniper rifle, in pieces, before him. Coming out, guns blazing against a Reaper army, sure, but facing the horror that is potentially behind door number one—getting the better of him.

"You're really out-calibrating yourself."

Shepard. "Was that supposed to be a joke?" he drawls. He looks back at her tentatively. She sticks by the door. "You can come closer, I won't bite."

"Will you swing?"

He laughs. "I think I've got it out of my system. For now." He hears her step closer. Soon she's beside him. "You know, I've never been one for heart-to-hearts."

"So I have a heart now? I'll count myself lucky to have moved up in your estimation." He flaps his mandibles, not sure whether to smile or frown. "You all right? Vega's had no one to measure his dick against. It's getting sad out there."

He chuckles. "I think he'll be fine. He and Brooks seem to be hitting it off."

Shepard picks up the barrel of the sniper rifle and sets it down. "Love is in the air." The energy in her voice feels forced. "I think Dr. Michel has been missing you." Garrus shifts his weight from one leg to the other. Spirits. Chloe. He's been keeping his distance, offering no explanations. Bit of a coward that way. Bit of a bastard. Hasn't been able to sort his feelings out. If he'd thought for even a moment that Tali was alive… He scratches at his forehead. "Have you talked to her yet?"

"To Chloe?"

"Tali."

"Not yet. Eventually." He shifts again. "Shepard… I know things between us were a bit touch and go for a while."

"That's putting it lightly."

"I want you to know…"

She shakes her head. "I didn't come here looking for apologies. I was an asshole."

"Was?"

She grins. "I came here looking for…" she falters. Garrus waits. "You were my best friend once." For a moment she looks vulnerable. She shrugs it off. "You revered me. I get it. I'm kind of a big deal. Fancy Spectre. Got a knack for killing Reapers and saving the galaxy. I'd be in awe, too."

He barks a laugh. "Get over yourself."

There's a spark in her eye, despite how deep in thought she looks. "I came here looking for a friend. See if you needed to talk. Hell. Maybe I'm the last person you want to talk to. But if you need it, Garrus—if you need that—I'm here."

"Yeah. Well…" He picks up the handle of the sniper rifle and begins fitting the pieces together. "Thanks," he grumbles. "I'll talk to her, Shepard. I'll talk to Chloe, too. I haven't had an easy time wrapping my head around this. You know how things were," he adds more quietly. She nods. "And Chloe's great. Smart. Funny. Nice looking." He shrugs. "For a human."

"Hilarious, Vakarian. And here I've been trying to figure out why she'd settle for a thug like you."

He smiles. "She puts up with my awkwardness. And gets me turian chocolate. Things were getting…" he shakes his head. "Things are getting… I don't know what the hell's going on anymore." He drops the rifle. It thunks on the work bench. "How could she be alive? And why the hell didn't Xen tell us? What game is she playing at?"

"Hell if I know. She kept Tali alive. I'm willing to give her a pass."

"What's she like? Tali?" He twines his talons before setting them down on the table. "Liara mentioned she had some memory loss…? How far back—what does she remember?"

A breath. "She remembers Saren, Sovereign, and my… death. But she didn't know I'd been brought back."

"Oh." That far back. His throat dries. He narrows his eyes. They're burning. He blinks. Allows himself a few seconds and then he's steady again. Shepard looks at the work bench and not at him. He's grateful. "Good to know."

"It might help if the two of you talked."

"The way you and Liara talk?"

Shepard scoffs. "We're working on it." He looks at her dubiously before taking the sniper rifle apart again. "Hey, Garrus." He looks at her. "You're not so bad at these heart-to-hearts."

* * *

 _To: Shepard, Jane_

 _From: Al-Jilani, Khalisah_

 _Subject: You owe us answers!_

Shepard deletes the email without reading. Khalisah Al-Jilani is a pain in her ass. Jilani has sent a barrage of emails over the course of the war. The now dead Shepard was similarly unresponsive, aside from the initial 'fuck off' she'd sent in reply. Whatever the woman wants, Shepard is sure the end result is the same: an ambush. She's had enough of the 'journalist' and would prefer to not deck her on air again.

A smile pulls at her lips thinking of the incident, years ago on the Citadel. The ratings for the segment were off the charts. Shepard remembers getting a kick out of it at the time. Ash approved. Her 'mother' gave her hell. Hackett gave her hell. Anderson gave her hell. Shepard winces thinking of Anderson. He knows. Will he expose her?

She slaps the laptop shut and glances at Tali's name plaque, removed crudely only minutes ago. The metal has warped, bulging on the right side, concaved in the middle. She doesn't want people to keep gawking at it. Having a member of the crew bring tools to remove it while others watched didn't sit right with her. Shepard yanked it loose with a touch of biotic power.

Maybe that emptiness on the wall, where Tali's name had once been will be more jarring. Shit. She picks the plaque up, trying to bend the edges straight. Would it have been better to let Tali remove it? She thinks of stripping the other Shepard of her N7 armor in that hole in Tuchanka and wonders if a lie fits better.

The door to the cabin opens and Shepard wonders if there will ever come a day when people knock. She gets to her feet. Liara. Shepard nods and lingers at the foot of the stairs. "You here to tell me there's another fire to put out, or that you and Javik are making it official?"

"Very funny." Shepard steps aside to let Liara move past her. She has unconsciously made Liara's voice a subject of study. It's different than before. Not hurried and high-pitched, nervous and stumbling like a brook. More often than not it is eerily calm, tired, reserved, waiting for that other shoe to drop. Liara looks around the cabin, her eyes settling on the Destiny Ascension ship model. "You've put a lot of those ships together."

"You know me. I've always had a thing for models."

Liara narrows her eyes. Shepard smiles. "I couldn't help but notice you were visiting Staff Analyst Brooks earlier."

"What does that have to do with ship models?" A shrug. "I dare you to deny that she's easy on the eyes." Shepard looks away from her to the fish tank, despite her curiosity. The conversation makes her feel guilty but she isn't sure about who. "A bit stupid though, isn't she?" Is she involved with James? She said she wasn't, but the thought still suffocates. "I asked her to evacuate her quarters. Xen needs the space."

"I'm surprised she had the room to begin with." Shepard looks back at her. "I know you've visited her at night."

"Spying?"

"I know what happens on this ship."

"And avoiding the question. I take it that's a yes." Shepard leans against the back of the couch. "Do you want to ask if there's something going on with me and Brooks?" She isn't sure she can give Liara a straight answer, not when she has yet to sort it out.

Liara moves beside her, holding on the back of the couch. She sighs and Shepard wonders if her answer is in that sigh, a resigned admission? A frustrated denial? "We've changed a great deal, haven't we?"

"Some of us more than others." Tightness grips her body, bracing for the potential conversation ahead, the one that marks her as different, as other, inferior, not real.

"When you first saved the Destiny Ascension, I didn't question it. It was the right thing to do. It meant that you thought of other races and not solely your own."

"It could just be that I was trying to impress an impressionable asari. That little stunt wouldn't work now."

"You call saving the Council a little stunt?"

"I've saved the Council twice now." She smiles wryly. "You weren't impressed this time around." The Council had been saved, the Citadel saved and still Liara wanted her implanted with a chip. Shepard doesn't know if she's angry anymore or if betrayal is the new state of living. "What does it take to impress the Shadow Broker?" Shadow Broker. How? When? Data isn't enough of an answer. The answer is in the distance between them.

"I'm not sure she can be. But… taking down a Reaper on Rannoch seems like a decent start." Shepard looks at her. "What you did there—I … still haven't wrapped my head around it. I didn't think such a thing was possible. But that has always been your way, hasn't it? Making the impossible look simple."

"Always been my way…?"

Liara furrows her brow. She pushes away from the couch, pacing. "I know I have wronged you. I don't know if it's anything I can ever atone for. I've held so much bitterness and resentment. It's possible I've let it cloud my judgment. In some ways the Shadow Broker network has been a blessing. I'm not sure what I might have done without it." She wrings her hands. "Lately—I can't seem to stop thinking about you."

Shepard's mouth is dry. "Javik will be heartbroken." A flash of her eyes, biting as steel. Shepard stares back, swallowing similar words. Liara's eyes fortify Shepard's walls. "I'd be lying if I said I haven't wondered how things got this way. Who are you? I see glimpses of the woman I knew."

"So do I." Liara moves around the couch and sits. Shepard stays put, turning her head only slightly to look at her. "I'm left wondering who you are. I… believe that you have her memories. Your memories." Another small frown. "I'm sorry. Maybe it's best if we don't speak of it at all. I have no wish to be … rude." Shepard shifts, folding her arms along the back of the couch and stooping enough to look at her. Liara stares back and looks away. "Do you remember when we first met? I had so many questions. You asked…" That doubt there, wondering, Shepard is sure, whether 'you' is the right word, "whether I wanted to dissect you."

"Didn't you?"

"No, of course not." Her cheeks darken, despite how composed her voice is. "You're teasing me. In any case… I haven't entirely abandoned my love of dig sites, excavating, unearthing truths. I've tried to find out everything I can about you. This you." Her gaze falters. "But I've found remarkably little. I don't know how you stayed hidden for so long. I should have known. Would I have known if you hadn't told me? Forgive me, Shepard—I didn't think you so gifted in covering your tracks. You've always been a bit like a krogan in a china shop."

"That hurts."

"I very much doubt that. Regardless, I am curious. How did you manage to go unnoticed? Such subterfuge."

"I had help."

"Who?"

"…Miranda." She doesn't want to talk about it. Miranda is a speck in the grand scheme of things. "We were on better terms when she wanted something from me." A beat. "I wonder…" Liara looks at her curiously. Shepard shakes her head. She can't say she wonders what Jane thought about Miranda. Would their opinions be so fundamentally different? "I was dead for two years. I woke up …" she runs a hand through her hair and gets to her feet. She doesn't want to tell Liara that she woke up in a lab. "You're still a maiden." Liara gauges her carefully. "A 'maiden.'" She smiles. Liara is apprehensive. "I'm not going to say I remembered everything right away, Liara, because I didn't. When we met on Illium, I wasn't sure who you were. I had a feeling. As if you were… written into my very being. You kissed me and I…" got obsessed. "I started tracking down everything I could about you. I read your Prothean papers. I saved a picture of you on my omni-tool," she says, embarrassed. "I wasn't supposed to care about asari. I wasn't supposed to have personal ties. But there you were."

"Why weren't you supposed to have those things? Were they programmed?"

"I'm not a fucking robot."

Liara rises. "That isn't… I'm trying to understand. It sounds like you were created to be a soldier."

"I was created to be spare parts."

"Then what would the purpose be of giving you those thoughts? Those… instructions." She considers. "Unless someone tried to instill those values in you."

"We're getting off topic." She crashes onto the couch.

"All right." Liara sits carefully beside her. "I'm wondering what being a maiden has to do with anything."

"You're still young." For an asari, anyway. "Two years… That must be nothing to you. Asari can live up to a thousand years—"

"I know how long we live."

Shepard frowns. "You're still you. You have her face." She lifts a hand as if to caress her cheek but lets it falter back to her side. "You seem so different. How can someone change so much in so little time?" Liara's chest heaves. Shepard licks her lips, unsure of how to ask the question. "When I boarded this vessel—you came in here, fire and brimstone. Your arm was bruised. I remember your palms where your skin was broken. Was that… It was her." Liara stares at her steadily. "How can you look at me? Do you hate me?" Maybe she means to ask the opposite.

"I don't know how to answer that question. I don't know how to feel when I look at you. Happy. Sad. Confused. Angry. Frightened. Too many things." Her fingers glide along Shepard's neck, trailing along the chain holding the dog tags in place. "How did you get these? Did you… Did you take them from her?"

"Anderson gave them to me." Seeing the question on her face, she takes a breath. "Tuchanka wasn't the first time I squared off with _her_. I found her on Omega. Tried to take her out. I was angry. Insecure. I knew she was working for Cerberus, but that isn't why I went after her. Not really." A shake of her head. "It didn't matter. She mopped the floor with me. She was… enhanced…? It was like fighting a mech hand-to-hand. It was stupid to fight her that way. Biotics are my strong suit."

"I've noticed."

She tries not to dwell on the compliment. "She broke ribs. She broke my jaw. My nose. Shot me twice. If it wasn't for… Mo—Samara—she would have killed me."

"Samara?"

"She and … They hadn't gotten along. After that happened, I gave up. I'd trained to kill her but I couldn't stop her. I refused to sit there, waiting for the day Cerberus came to reclaim me. I went to Earth. To Alaska. I had a dog. A guy. A cabin. Things were… peaceful. Calm. I thought I could be happy, but that life I thought I wanted—it wasn't my life, either. I would have stayed in it, but the Reapers came. I went south, to Vancouver, ended up where Anderson was. I tried to tell him I just had one of those faces. He didn't buy it. But I knew how to fight. I knew how to kill. I was useful, so he let me hang around."

"Of course. The lookalike," Liara mutters. "The Hero of Earth."

"Doesn't have quite the same ring as the Butcher of Torfan, does it?" She's momentarily deflated, unsure why. "I would have stayed but I was called on to stop the attack on Grissom. Anderson's friend Kahlee was there. So I left him. I figured he'd prefer that." Her jaw feels too tight. "He told me to give the tags to 'Shepard.' Maybe I should give them to you."

Her fingers are wound tightly around the chain, the light metal digging into her palm. Liara's hand slips over hers. Shepard blinks, the contact blinding her with memories. "What's your last memory of me?"

"I told you to get your ass to the escape pod." She's seen that, in flashes, in her dreams. She should have kissed her. Then again, she'd had no plans on dying. Not after everything that had been survived.

Liara smiles faintly. "Do you know how I hated Joker after that? I didn't think any emotion could be stronger than love, than grief. I took comfort in that hatred. It was better than loss. Warmer. When Cerberus came to me, when they told me they could piece you back together, if only I could help find your body…" She considers. "What was I, aside from an isolated young asari, pampered in her upbringing, nervous… removed—who lost the person that changed everything for her? I didn't know whether I could do it. I only knew that I wouldn't stop until someone put me down. I saw a lot of things. I killed a lot of people. I thought it was worth it. I wish I could say that I had a loftier goal, that I wanted you back simply so you could stop the Reapers. That's why Cerberus wanted you. I wanted you…" She clears her throat. "I just wanted to see some piece of you again. And I did, in that pod. A piece of you. Pieces of you. The moment it was done, the moment your body was delivered to Cerberus and you were out of sight… I fragmented." Her eyes glimmer. "There was so much I had to leave behind to see the mission through. Feron. That person I was. That woman Shepard fell in love with. I thought it was worth it. I would have given anything."

" _Was_ it worth it?"

Liara casts her gaze down. "Goddess, I want to believe so. Who you were… Who you are. I'm not sure if I should cling to either of you."

She still feels the warmth of Liara's hand over her own. She's close. So close. "Liara. When you look at me…" Liara lifts her eyes. "I can't tell you how to feel, but I want you to know, I would nev—"

The thought is lost as Liara leans forward and claims her lips. Shepard's fingers tighten on the dog tags. It isn't long before her lips part hesitantly. She flashes back to their first kiss on the Normandy SR-1. They'd been in Liara's study. She'd been rambling on about Prothean design, the swoops and curves, the clean lines of their architecture. Shepard was the one who took initiative on that day. Liara shook with nervous energy. _It's all right. It's all right_. Shepard wanted to say to her, telepathically, somehow. This is how it was. This, a second first time. First time? All she knows is that the map of her feels more cohesive, filled in with every moment of their contact. A part of her protests. She shouldn't do this. Rasa said this would happen. _I'm more than biology_. Liara's lips tremble against her own, breath shy and warm, as their bodies draw closer together.

* * *

It takes thirty seconds to pack her things. She can evacuate the room but the thought of leaving and having to pretend for a moment longer that she is the insufferable, insipid Maya Brooks makes her want to slit her throat. She can't say she's ever had a clear identity. Her life has been spent molding herself to the situation. There is someone there, a core, hard as a diamond, cold and solitary that has remained, even if recently inaccessible. If she were to miss things, locations, states of being—it might be that durability.

She had thought Grace didn't need her anymore—that Grace had moved on. She wasn't even sure Grace still existed. It seemed as if every bit of her had been subsumed by Shepard. She rises from the bed. Logistically, it should be what she wants. Grace has become everything she hoped for: she has become Shepard. She can stop the Reapers. She can win this war. And she can do it without her. Rasa harbors no doubt about that. She has considered leaving the _Normandy._ She could be free of Maya Brooks. Free of entanglements. The prospect leaves her feeling surprisingly empty. Where would she go? What would she do?

James saunters into the room. He takes the room in and looks at her. "Going AWOL?" Maybe. He looks into the box she's packed. Five Alliance uniforms, a laptop, framed picture, coffee mug, and a small bag with some grooming items. Other souvenirs, keepsakes, if she kept such things, aren't anything that can be put in a box. "I don't see any evidence of a boyfriend in here."

"Maybe I have a girlfriend."

"I thought you might." He looks at her a second longer than she's comfortable with. "You pack light."

She musters the voice of Maya Brooks, bright, positive, exhausting. "Getting to join the _Normandy_ was a last minute thing. Almost _real_ last minute. Because of the scary phantoms during the Coup?" X3. Crazy clone bitch. Yet, Rasa feels the trickle of something sad. She barricades the feeling. "This is war. Otherwise I would have brought my big stack of data pads. And Mr. Biscuits." She plucks the framed picture from the box and holds it up.

"You look happy there," he remarks. Unlike here? His gaze is on the picture and then back to her. "I hear the quarian admiral is going to be taking over this room. Looks like you're going to be bunking with the rest of us. Pods feel a bit small at first but you get used to it."

She's slept in room corners, she's slept in chutes, in holes in the wall, in the ground. She fit better when she was smaller. A pod is paradise. The empty bed has been oppressive. "The pods probably don't feel as small to other people. I don't know if you've noticed but you're a big guy."

"You've noticed?"

"Kind of hard to miss, isn't it?"

"Something going on with you? You seem off." Does she? What does he know? Some fragment of the visage that she puts on around members of the _Normandy_. Fragments that seem to break away when he's near. Maybe she wants to be caught. What would he do? Try to arrest her? He wouldn't get far. He would underestimate her. One opening and he'd be undone. She could gut him, or put a bullet between his eyes. Her stomach knots thinking of it. Not that. Not him. When the hell did she get so weak? "Hey, don't let my good looks distract you. I do a halfway decent job of listening. If that's what you want."

"Is that why you're here? To listen?" The response is more Rasa than Maya Brooks. She could bed him. It wouldn't be difficult. Just reach for his belt and yank him close. It's what Rasa would do. She wants to abandon this presentation. Not speaking is the only way she knows to not lie. To lie less.

He laughs nervously, his thumb easing along his forehead before he settles his eyes on her. "Don't get me wrong, Flaca, you're… I like you. Probably obvious." His eyes dart away. "But I can't get a handle on you. You're stuck on something. Maybe it's Shepard. Maybe it's something else. I don't know. I don't fraternize. Even if you've got me thinking maybe that's something I should switch up. But this is a small ship and we're in it for the long haul. You want to distract me from asking questions—there are other ways."

Rasa bites her tongue. Truthfully, she likes his attention. If he had come by a few hours ago, she might have welcomed the opportunity to forget. To move on. With the meathead. The thoughtful, handsome meathead. Now…

Maya Brooks looks up at him. "Look… I like you, okay? You've been a good friend to me. I… don't have friends. People don't pay attention to me." And that's the way she wants it. "I know people think I'm an idiot. But—all I've ever wanted is to do something great." That isn't a pun, she nearly says. Yes. All she wanted was to do something great. Some big destiny. Some big gesture. In a way she has. She brought Grace to where she needed to be. She did what she had to, even if she made mistakes along the way. Even if she made the biggest mistake. She takes a breath. "I don't want to lose what we have. Last time you came to my quarters, you kissed me." She begins gesticulating. "It's okay! I liked it! I mean, you're a good kisser, but I…" She trails off, hoping he'll finish the thought for her.

She has to give him credit. There's only the briefest flash of a crestfallen expression, and then it's gone. He nods. "You want to keep things chill. Message received. No more PDA. Won't happen again."

She studies his face. "You're okay then? We're okay?" Ugh. Feelings.

"Yeah, absolutely. Like I said, I got a rule. No fraternization. You and me—todo bien."

She smiles. "I'm glad. So I'll see you in the morning for PT?" Damn it. Why does she keep doing this to herself?

He turns to leave. "Better believe it, Butter. Oh-six-thirty. Let's see if we can get you into double digits on those chin ups."

"You're on!" she replies, but James is already out the door.

* * *

A military vessel never really sleeps. There are rotations and shifts, but the working and resting portions of the crew remain relatively constant. The faces change, but the workstations are always manned. For the most part, anyway; as with anything during wartime, you make do with who and what you have. And if you're looking for recreation, there's always something going on somewhere. A card game, an old movie showing, karaoke, drinking and socializing. Anyone who has experienced life on a ship knows there is an ebb and flow to it. Each ship is different, even if it's the same. Each is a puzzle to be solved, an ecosystem to be adapted to. Tali figures she understands the dynamics of ship life better than most of these humans.

She hasn't figured out this ship yet, though she has familiarized herself with where everything is. The crew has been friendly enough. A few have asked her about her previous time with Shepard. She wants to tell them it's none of their business, that it feels too much like eulogizing her again, but of course she doesn't. She finds some story to tell, some small anecdote—enough to satisfy their curiosity, but not enough to impart any real understanding of what the woman meant to her.

Shepard asked to meet with her after her shift in Engineering. When the time comes, she bids Adams a good 'night' – as meaningless as that term seems aboard a starship – and heads up to the Crew Deck. She finds the commander alone in the Starboard Observatory's library, perusing one of the bookcases. "Hello, Shepard. Is it true this ship was built by Cerberus?"

Shepard pulls a slightly tattered book from the stacks and turns toward her. Tali glances at the cover. _A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court_. "Yep. Built by Cerberus, retrofitted by the Alliance."

"And… if I understand correctly, you were, um… rebuilt by Cerberus as well?"

"Hmm." Shepard directs her eyes upward, bobs her head left, right, then fixes her gaze back on Tali. "Yeah, I guess. Something like that."

Ancestors. Tali shakes her head slowly. "Sometime you'll have to explain to me how Cerberus got so wrapped up in all this."

"I will. If I ever figure it out myself." She tucks the book into a pocket and saunters over to the enormous viewport. Tali joins her in looking out at the expanse of stars. "You served on this ship before, you know. I don't mean the SR-1. I mean this one. Before the retrofits."

Tali nods. "I gathered that. EDI says Engineering is where I… had my accident?" She's still unsure about the wisdom of having an unshackled AI present in the ship's systems, but she – _it_ – has been useful for obtaining information.

Shepard furrows her brow. "EDI has a big mouth. But she wouldn't lie."

"I know that." Does she? An unshackled AI can lie, can't it?

Shepard turns to her. "Have you tried to contact anyone in the flotilla? Any of the admirals?"

She shakes her head. "You told me not to. That it would get Xen and maybe you in trouble. I don't quite understand it, but I trust you. I did try to talk to Xen, but she won't tell me anything. She just shoos me away and says she's too busy for gossip." _Bosh'tet_.

Shepard lets out a deep breath. Her eyes are conflicted. She touches Tali's arm and guides her over to one of the chairs. "Have a seat, Tali."

"Um… Okay." She sits. "What's this about, Shepard?"

Shepard paces, hand on her chin, deep in thought. "There's something I need to tell you. It's going to be hard to hear. You might be mad that I didn't tell you right away, but I didn't think five minutes after waking up from a coma was the right time to get this kind of news."

Tali can feel her heart pounding. She's scaring her. "It's okay, Shepard. Just tell me what it is."

Shepard sits beside her and takes her hand. "It's about your father."

* * *

The mess hall is livelier than usual, everyone anticipating desperately needed shore leave. It's too loud. It isn't the hum Liara is accustomed to—that of computer equipment that never rests. The Alliance News Network plays on a monitor. Crewmembers cheer whenever the _Normandy_ or _Shepard_ are mentioned, though the overall news is mostly bleak. The krogan-turian alliance has created something of a quagmire on Palaven, but it hasn't slowed the Reapers from advancing on virtually every major system in the galaxy. Sur'kesh and Thessia are now under threat. The Reapers continue to lay waste to planets, killing and harvesting their populations.

Shepard moves through the crew, a part of them, apart from them. She's always been aloof. Some find her intimidating, others snobbish. There has never been an in between when Shepard's attention is caught. You are either blessed or your time has been cut short.

The elevator doors open. Brooks and James step out, in the midst of a conversation. Shepard notices them, stalls, and is moving past when Liara takes her arm. Shepard stops, meets her eyes boldly. Liara nearly flushes, fighting to not be reduced to that stammering woman of years ago. How long since they shared a kiss? Minutes? Hours? It seems an eternity. "Liara. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I haven't seen Tali this morning."

"Do you keep track of all the women in my life?"

Her smile is arrogant. Charming. "There's little I don't keep track of. In any case, I wasn't finished with my meal." She looks at the unappetizing dinner on her plate. Wilted, eezo-infused asparagus and potatoes she can still taste the powder on. "I thought you might like to keep me company."

"I might, or you might?"

"Both, preferably." Shepard smiles, startled, before nodding and sitting opposite of her. Liara sits gingerly, not taking her eyes off her. "Is this all right?"

Shepard folds her arms on the table, still distracted. "I guess I've gotten more used to us dodging bullets and arguing than sharing a meal. I prefer this," she says absently.

That's something. "How's Tali?"

Shepard frowns slightly. "I told her about her father last night."

"Ah. I see." Liara pokes at the asparagus, more grey than green. She pushes it back on the plate. "How did she take it?"

A shrug. "About how you'd think."

Liara nods, though she isn't sure what she thought. "She just needs some time. Perhaps I'll pay her a visit later."

"Yeah. That would be good." She scoots forward. "This whole thing must be hard for her. Even aside from the business with her father."

A thin smile. "I suppose you would know."

Shepard's eyes glance away as Brooks and James walk past them, trays in hand, before sitting at the table behind Liara. Shepard swivels her eyes back to Liara. "I would," she says, plucking a spear from Liara's plate. She downs it, makes a face. "It'll be easier once everyone stops staring at her."

"It's been difficult for Garrus." Liara sips some water.

"Not half as hard as it's been for her," Shepard scoffs. She runs a hand through her hair. "She's still Tali." Liara reaches across the table. No doubt the situation is familiar. It wouldn't do to grab her hand in public. Her fingers skim along Shepard's arm, settling on the cuff of her Alliance shirt, but Shepard pulls her hand away. Nervous. Ashamed?

"It's difficult to garner any information from the quarian fleet. I've not had much luck recruiting informants there. Quarians are much too clannish. Their close-knit society tends to make them incorruptible. Perhaps because they cannot hide wealth, and they have no privacy to enjoy personal comforts. In any case, it's inconvenient." Liara takes a bite of the potatoes. Bland, runny. She gives up, pushing the tray to one side. "Xen is an enigma. What little I have gathered—Shepard, I'm not sure she should be on this ship. I'm not sure we can trust someone like that." Why would she keep Tali's existence a secret? How did Tali survive?

"I made—"

"Hey Commander!" It's one of the crewmen, gathered by the monitor. He points to the screen. "You know about this?"

The face on the monitor is a familiar one. The journalist known as Khalisah Bint Sinan Al-Jilani. The crewman turns up the volume.

"… _epard. It's a name that strikes fear into the hearts of enemies and inspires hope among the hopeless. A biotic prodigy and a peerless soldier, she is renowned throughout the galaxy as the first human to be granted Spectre authority by the Citadel Council. When Saren Arterius and his geth army attacked the Citadel, Shepard spearheaded its defense, saving the lives of the Council and countless millions of civilians. Some may also know her by less flattering titles such as the Butcher of Torfan, garnered when she led a brutal and costly Alliance attack that wiped out a series of batarian-held criminal strongholds. A hero to some, a scourge to others, no one could ever deny that she was dauntless, unshakable, and controversial. Just one month after the Battle of the Citadel, the galactic community let out a collective cry of despair as it learned of Shepard's death at the hands of straggling geth forces. We mourned, we commemorated, and we moved on. Then, two years later, Commander Shepard returned under the veil of secrecy. Rumors spread that she had been medically resurrected. That perhaps she had never died at all. That perhaps her death had been faked. More disturbing were allegations that she was working for Cerberus, the infamous human supremacist and terrorist organization. Tonight, I will demonstrate that the conspiracy may go well beyond that. The woman we call Commander Jane Shepard may not only be a Cerberus agent, but she may not be Jane Shepard at all! The evidence we have gathered is substantial. We have comprehensive facial structure comparisons, fingerprints, testimony from Cerberus defectors, and much, much more. Tune in at nine o' clock Citadel time for our special presentation of Shepard: Savior or Fraud?_ "

The promo ends and the crewman mutes the monitor. Everyone in the cafeteria is staring at Shepard. A few laugh nervously, but overall the room is still. She puts on a broad smile, but Liara can see the blood has drained from her face. "What? You believe that stupid shit? Come on. Al-Jilani's a paranoid hack. She's been on my ass for years."

Everyone looks around at each other. It's James who speaks first. "Hey Shepard—if that's your real name—are you the good twin or the evil twin?"

"Does it matter, Vega? I'm pretty sure your fantasy life involves both of us."

And just like that, the tension passes, dissolving into an eruption of laughter. It's only when she exhales that Liara realizes she had been holding her breath. Even as she regathers herself, she doesn't miss the look Shepard casts in Brooks' direction. Like Liara, Brooks is not laughing. She is focused. Determined. Proud? She returns Shepard's look with a thin, slight smile and an almost imperceptible nod. When she notices Liara watching her, that vacuous expression returns to her features and she joins the room's laughter. Liara swallows. Goddess. She knows. Brooks knows.


	35. Maya Brooks

Somehow, Rasa manages to make her way up to Shepard's cabin without being stalked by the asari. Lately, it seems as if she can't take a step outside the War Room without being observed. Liara is always around the corner or just down the hall, those cold, calculating eyes glancing her way before returning to whatever errand she is coincidentally attending to. Rasa just waves and smiles, giving the Shadow Broker no further reason to suspect she is anything other than a bumbling staff analyst. She knows Liara caught a glimpse of her—the _real_ her—in the cafeteria.

It's been days since Al-Jilani's exposé. It made for light conversation around the proverbial water cooler, as well as generating fodder for the conspiracy theory nut-jobs on the extranet forums, but it was nothing any well-adjusted person would take seriously. Most laughable was the testimony from alleged ex-Cerberus operatives and fringe scientists, offering up a medley of crackpot theories variously describing Shepard as a shapeshifter, an experimental AI platform, a cosmetically altered body double, and yes, a clone. Interestingly, the last was given the least consideration.

That isn't to say some science wasn't brought to bear. Facial recognition, fingerprinting, DNA, retinal scans, comparative analysis of photographs and video footage, and so on. All amounting to "she's a centimeter taller and has slightly different cheekbones." Rasa wonders if the Shepard who died in that hole on Tuchanka would have passed all those tests. A third of her had been replaced. She didn't come back the same, no matter what Miranda and the Illusive Man thought.

The 'evidence' can all be discredited or explained away, but the beauty is there's no need. Shepard is an icon. She just pulled off a certifiable miracle on Rannoch. People are desperate to believe someone is going to save them. Al-Jilani is a fool for thinking she could tear her down. Rasa wonders if she will make a nuisance of herself by pursuing this story further. What set her on this path to begin with?

Rasa lets herself in. Shepard has her back to the door, rearranging the model ships on her crowded display cabinet. Light, soaring, classical music plays on the sound system. "You wanted to see me?" She got the message through their private omni-tool link.

Shepard carefully places her latest model in a newly cleared space. "Yes. I wanted to see how you were doing. Things going okay since the move?"

She shrugs. She misses her privacy. When she was alone in her quarters, she could stop pretending for a few hours. "Copeland snores, and Campbell talks in her sleep. But it's fine. I've dealt with worse."

Shepard adjusts the angle and position of the model, clips on some support wires, then steps back to appraise. "Good. What about your duties?"

Ugh. Her "duties," meaning her mind-numbing desk job. She spends her day running cost-benefit analyses, auditing data, generating efficiency reports, designing work flows, blah blah blah. She thought she had put this kind of drudgery behind her long ago, when the Illusive Man finally started giving her fieldwork. It's like a nightmare, only she never wakes up. "Satisfying and deeply fulfilling," she smirks. "It's what I was always meant to do."

Shepard turns to her. "You joke, but apparently you're not bad at it. EDI says War Room crew efficiency is up nine percent since you arrived."

"Nine point two," she corrects, immediately embarrassed that she felt the need to bother. "Whatever. I don't care." She cuts herself short of saying a krogan could do it.

Shepard looks bemused. "You're the one who made Maya Brooks a staff analyst, you know."

She can only concede the point. "I know. I chose it because I know how to do this kind of work, but this identity wasn't meant to be used for more than a few days at a time. I never thought I'd actually be… here."

"You didn't? Wasn't this always the plan?"

"The plan was for YOU to be here," she scoffs. "Not me."

"Where did you think you would be?"

Dead. Or at the very least cast off like dead weight. Which she is. She shakes her head. "I don't know. On a beach somewhere, waiting for you to fix everything?"

Shepard exhales a laugh. "Doesn't sound like your style."

"Maybe you don't know me as well as you think."

"I don't know you at all. But I'm glad you're here."

Rasa looks around. The photo of Liara is missing from its usual spot. "Did you need me for something?"

Shepard reaches out, touches her chin and brings her eyes forward again. "No. I don't need you. You made me too well for that. But I want you."

Oh. Rasa reaches up and grabs her wrist before it retreats. Shepard looks at her, eyes questioning, then smiles cockily as she closes the gap. Theirs lips press together, soft, then harder and more insistent. Shepard envelops her, hands exploring, pushing her back to the wall. Rasa bumps her head. A short laugh is quickly smothered. When their lips separate again, Shepard looks at her, one side of her face awash in the blue light of the aquarium. "Say my name," she says softly.

A demand or a request, it doesn't matter. Rasa pushes Shepard's hair back from one ear and leans in to whisper. _Grace_. She takes Shepard's hand and slips away from the wall, leading her toward the bed.

"Wait." Shepard stops short. When Rasa turns to her, she looks down guiltily. "There's something I need to tell you."

Rasa's hand slips loose. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Liara and I… She kissed me. I kissed her back."

Fuck. Shit. Fuck. "So I was right."

"No… Maybe." She sighs. "I don't know. It happened just after you and I talked. I wasn't looking for it."

"Keep telling yourself that."

"It was only the one time. It won't happen again. I won't let it."

"You ended it?"

"Not... exactly."

Rasa rolls her eyes. "In other words, you've been ducking her. Do you think she'll just forget? It isn't that simple. Not on a ship like this." Not anywhere really.

"What can I do?"

"Kick her off the ship."

"This again?" Shepard glances away. "You know I can't. She's the Shadow Broker. I need the best people. It would be irresponsible to throw away a resource like that."

"Right. She's a _resource_." She shakes her head. "She's going to fight for you, and she suspects I'm not who I say I am. She'll make trouble for me if I stay on this ship."

"I'll protect you."

Rasa scowls. "I don't need your goddamn protection." She starts moving toward the door.

"Don't leave. Give me some time to figure this out."

She pauses shy of the door. "Do I get to screw around with James in the meantime? I talked to him, you know. We put a stop to things. Maybe I should have taken a page from your playbook and hidden from him instead."

"That's not fair."

"It isn't?" Rasa sighs, measuring her next words. "This infatuation you have with her... I know you can't help it. It was always going to be a part of you. There was no getting around it. If Liara is the one you want, I won't stand in your way." She really should leave. Just disembark at the next stop. Go to the Citadel. Go anywhere. It would be the best thing for everyone. "I'll stay _._ For now. When you figure things out, let me know." She walks out.

* * *

Liara waits, watching the elevator travel from Shepard's cabin to the crew quarters.

She has been monitoring staff Analyst Brooks to the best of her ability since that moment in the cafeteria. It hasn't been as simple as she imagined it would be. There are blocks in the _Normandy_ 's video feeds. She has grilled EDI but the blabbermouth has been surprisingly tightlipped. She suspects it's some order from Shepard but hopes it isn't true. Deep down, she knows it is.

The elevator dings. It is with grim satisfaction and dread that Liara sees Maya Brooks—if that's even her name—step out of the elevator. There's a darkness in her eyes that intensifies upon spotting her. It disappears instantaneously. Liara doesn't know if she imagined it or if she's only seeing what she wants to see.

Liara studies her. There's something scattered and anxious in her presentation. She flashes a quick smile at Liara, her eyes darting nervously, but Liara doesn't believe she is nervous. Is this an act? That woman she saw in the cafeteria—that was the real Maya Brooks. "Liara! Erm—Dr. T'Soni? Or… I'm not sure if you have an official title. Do you? The crew mentioned that you wrote some Prothean papers before we even knew they existed. That's incredible! It must be a dream come true for you." She smiles and scratches her cheek. "I'm rambling."

"Staff Analyst Brooks. Visiting Commander Shepard?"

"What? Oh." She looks back at the elevator as if surprised it gave her away. "You caught me." She raises her hands. "I know it's really dorky but everyone's been talking about Commander Shepard's epic model collection and I wanted to give them a look. They're so cool. I asked her if she has a favorite but she can't decide." She waits for Liara to respond but she doesn't. "I used to collect models myself."

"Really. What did you like about it?"

She hadn't expected the question and she cocks her head to the side in consideration. "I don't know. First, you have to pick the right one. Not any will do. Not if you're going to put the time into it. Or maybe it's the idea of putting something together. Sometimes I ignored the instructions all together. It's crazy what you can come up with. Sometimes it's better than the original." Liara lashes a hand out and snatches her wrist. The surprise on her face is genuine, the fear. Either this woman is who she says she is or she's one of the most talented actresses in the universe. "I take it you like to follow the instructions."

"I don't believe a word you're saying." Her fingers tighten and Brooks face shifts with discomfort. "If you must know what title to call me by it's this: Shadow Broker." Not that it's a revelation. If she's close to Shepard, she knows. She must. "I'm watching you. And I'm going to uncover who you are. Save your little performances for someone who doesn't know better."

She watches her, waiting for her to flinch, to give something away, for her gaze to become knowing but it remains affronted and afraid. Liara releases her and Brooks rubs at her wrist and moves away, her head ducked down.

Shepard's been avoiding her. For this woman, no doubt. She has to discover why.

* * *

"You're a bosh'tet."

Shit.

Garrus never expected that he could put this off forever. He was just hoping to put it off a little while longer—like until he was dead, maybe. He turns slowly from the weapons console. She stands there, hands on hips, angry white eyes glaring through faceplate. "Hello, Tali," he ventures.

"Oh, no you don't. You don't get to just say hello. It's too late for that. I've been back for a week and you haven't said one word to me."

"Um… Yeah." He clears his throat. "Sorry about that. I've been really busy."

"Apology not accepted. And you'll have to do better than that. I've been crying my eyes out for days over my father, and you've been pretending I don't exist! So you better start talking right now, Garrus Vakarian."

Spirits. She's serious. "Okay. Hm. First, I'm sorry about your father. Maybe you don't remember this, but I was around the first time you, uh... went through this."

"I know. Shepard told me." A beat. "And?"

"And? Oh, right. Of course. Um. I didn't…" He hesitates. "I never thought I would see you again." Immediately, he winces at the sound of the words.

"OH. Well. I'm SO sorry to disappoint you. Would you like me to leave again so you don't have to suffer the sight of me? Maybe I should—"

"No!" he holds up both hands. "No. That's not what I meant." He sighs. "Let me try again."

She crosses her arms as she continues to glower at him. "All right."

Spirits. He rubs absently at the scars on his face. "How much do you remember about what happened before? Shepard gave me an idea, but…"

There's an uncomfortable silence before she uncrosses her arms. She paces to one side, clenching her hands together. "I remember Saren, Sovereign, and the geth—the battle at the Citadel. I remember the make-work patrol duty, chasing down pockets of geth." She pauses, placing both hands on the edge of his workbench and leaning against it. "I remember the _Normandy_ being attacked. It was chaos. I didn't think the geth had weapons like that. I remember wondering how they even detected us. I guess it wasn't them at all…" She hangs her head. "Anyway, I got to an escape pod. I watched the _Normandy_ disintegrate as we ejected. I remember realizing Shepard hadn't made it out. Afterward, we all went our separate ways. I returned to the flotilla. I was… sad for a long time. I started doing work for the admirals. That went on for a few months, and then… nothing. It's all a blank after that. I've wracked my brain trying to remember more, but the very last thing I can recall is returning from a mission where my team and I were exposed to some radiation, and Xen asking me to submit to some medical scans." She pushes off from the bench, turning to him once again. "I'm aware we didn't always get along, Garrus. Did I do or say something to offend you? Is that why…?"

He shakes his head. "No. Absolutely not. I was always the jerk." There are things he had to apologize for once. Things he may have to apologize for again. "I'm still the jerk."

"Finally, we're getting somewhere."

He chuckles in spite of himself. "Trust me. I'm aware. Has Shepard told you about how we took down the Collectors?"

She nods. "I know the basics. Cerberus, the Omega-4 Relay, Reaper IFF, the suicide mission."

"Right. The suicide mission. That title always bothered me, and it turned out to be a bit too damned close to prophetic for my tastes. It was brutal. We lost a lot of good people. Chakwas. The entire crew—aside from Joker. Jacob, Thane… You." He pauses. "You sure you want to hear this?"

"Yes." She remains still, studying his face.

He nods. "After we went through the relay, we got hit pretty hard. You were the first to fall."

She hmphs. "That's… disappointing."

"There was nothing you could have done. The drive core overloaded from the stress to the shields. You didn't make it out. Afterward…" He takes a shaky breath. "Afterward, I stood over your body. I helped put you in a coffin. You were… dead." He droops his head, mandibles twitching. He still doesn't understand how he missed it. "I _thought_ you were dead."

"It seems you weren't the only one."

He looks back up at her. "True. And I've been lucky twice now. Shepard died and came back. I thought that was a neat trick. Now you've duplicated it."

"I guess we weren't done with you yet."

Another chuckle. "Maybe. I suppose I should tell you, things were bad between me and Shepard for a while after that. I blamed her for all the things that went wrong. I blamed her for not saving everyone. As a turian, I should know better—only the mission matters. Victory at any cost. But then I've never been a very good turian."

"I think I'm beginning to realize that." She moves away from the workbench and stands in front of him. "Things are better between you two now?"

"Yeah. I think so. We're getting there anyway. I think… I was as angry with myself as I was with her." He starts to reach for her, catches himself. She notices. "I failed you. I'm sorry."

She watches his hand fall back to his side. "You didn't fail me. But I accept your apology. On one condition."

"What's that?"

"Next time I die and come back, don't treat me like I'm still dead. Got it?"

"Got it," he nods. "You planning to make a habit of it?"

She laughs. "Definitely not." She points to the scarred side of his face. "So. Suicide mission?"

"Oh, this? Nah. That's another story for another time. Preferably when I have a drink in my hand."

"I can't wait. I'll let you get back to your calibrating. I hear that's something you do now."

"Ah. My secret is out."

She starts to turn, then stops. "Hey, Garrus."

"Yeah?"

"Did we… Were we friends?"

A simple question with a complicated answer. They were more than friends. They never said the words but there was something there, beyond camaraderie, beyond shared dietary restrictions. She died and he had to learn to let her go. Having Tali back on the ship, in his life… It's a source of confusion. He's with Chloe now. Tali doesn't remember what they had. She's no longer that person. Isn't that person yet? No. This is only as confusing as he allows it to be. It took him a long time to move on, but he _did_ move on. "I might have grown on you, yeah. Honestly, I think you were pretty much head over heels for me by the end." He shrugs. "Must have been the scars."

"Ha! Doubtful, Vakarian. I've seen you dance."

He smiles in concession. "You got me. See you around, Tali."

"See you later, bosh'tet."

* * *

Maya Brooks doesn't exist.

Oh, to be sure, there is a woman on board the _Normandy_ going by that name. There is an entry in the Alliance personnel database with her name and service number. There are service records, medical records, certifications and honors, transcripts, test scores, evaluations—everything one would expect, stretching back for years, all meticulously detailed and internally consistent. She has an appropriately high level security clearance.

Liara has skimmed through the test scores and evaluation reports. They paint the picture of a quiet, introverted woman who keeps her head low, stays out of trouble, and performs her duties with above average (but not exceptional) technical proficiency. She's competent, but she doesn't stand out. Nothing about her is conspicuous. Liara checked to see if the woman had any presence on social media and found nothing. She can't say it's alarming. Some people simply choose to avoid social media. If anything, it perfectly fits her profile.

All in all, it's a very convincing representation of a person who exists and has existed for a long time. It would be enough to get her through any door, past any security checkpoint. There's only one problem. No one seems to actually know or remember her. Liara combed through the Alliance personnel database for service members who have shared duty assignments with Maya Brooks. She identified hundreds of such candidates and reached out to them. Galactic communications have been complicated by the ravages of war, but dozens of people have managed to respond so far. Not a single one has been able to provide a reference, each saying they cannot recall having ever served with a 'Maya Brooks.'

It doesn't rise to the level of proof. Not yet. Still, Liara has little doubt that 'Maya Brooks' is a fictitious identity. It is one thing to not be memorable. It is another to not be remembered. But this is only the beginning. Determining who the woman is _not_ is the easy part. Much more difficult is the task of figuring out who she _is_.

Shepard and Maya Brooks are more than crewmates. They are more than casual acquaintances, or even friends. That single shared glance in the cafeteria was confirmation of that. It was the look of two people who share a bond. A secret. A past. She knows who Shepard is. _What_ she is. But how? There is only one conclusion Liara has been able to come to. Maya Brooks is a Cerberus agent. Or was. Is she still?

Shepard has been evasive on the subject of who helped her get here. She said it was Miranda, but the assertion never made much sense. It is highly unlikely that Miranda had the time or the inclination to assist the clone while concurrently guiding Shepard against the Collectors. Once she became aware of the clone being on the loose, she would have viewed it as a threat. Only afterward, upon separating herself from Cerberus, might she have come to regard "Grace" as a useful resource—with exactly that amount of sentiment.

She thinks back to when she gave Miranda the tip about Cerberus moving on Grissom Academy. She knows now that it was Grace who went there and saved the students. So, yes, Miranda and Grace began collaborating at a certain point. That much is true. But how did Grace stay under the radar for so long before then? How did she go about making herself into Shepard? She would not have stepped out of the pod ready to take on that role. Liara can only imagine the trials she must have undergone. However she got here, it is not a path that one calculates for oneself. Nor could it have been serendipity. She would have needed a guide of her own.

Maya Brooks.

It's all starting to make sense now. The knowing look of assurance in the cafeteria. Shepard's late night visits to Brooks' private quarters. The fact that Brooks had private quarters...

It's easy enough to find an image of Maya Brooks in her personnel file. Liara takes it and runs a facial recognition scan against the local database. The system quickly comes back with "No matches." Disappointing but not surprising, given Miranda's prior sabotage. She never did finish rebuilding the lost data before the Illusive Man's forces attacked the Shadow Broker ship. When she crashed the ship to keep it out of Cerberus hands, she gave up any chance of fully recovering that data. What records she had salvaged to that point were incomplete and partially degraded.

It appears there will be no easy answers, but she's never shied away from a challenge. She starts a new image search, this time running a global scan against the entirety of her video archives, including many years' worth of collected surveillance footage. Covering billions of hours of recordings acquired from thousands of facilities around the galaxy, the task is enough to keep a quantum processor busy for hours. Fine. She has plenty to do in the meantime. There are reports to read, orders to distribute to her agents, materials to be redirected to the Crucible project, and so on. There is no end to the Shadow Broker's responsibilities.

She's checking her messages when a new one pops into her queue. It's from Shepard. The commander has been putting her off for days, always with some excuse. The kiss they shared now seems like a pleasant dream. In the immediate aftermath of it, she had found herself continually distracted by the thought of it. Now she finds herself distracted by the mystery of Maya Brooks. Who is she? What does she mean to Shepard?

She reads the message. Shepard is finally ready to see her. Good. She wants to see her. She will go to her soon, but not just yet. Not until she has armed herself—not with a gun, but with her greatest weapon.

Information.

* * *

Chloe lays her head against his chest. "Something's different with you," she says.

Garrus strokes her hair. They lie together on a medical cot, the glass windows of the med-bay darkened to opaque. They have continued to escalate their physical interactions, though they have not taken it as far as they can. For now, they explore what it's like to be with one another in an intimate way. In some ways, he finds it is the same as it is between turians. In other ways, it is very different. "What do you mean?" he asks. He immediately regrets the question. It feels like a lie.

"You've been distant lately."

"I guess I have." So she noticed. She hadn't said anything before now. "Sorry."

"It's all right. Care to talk about it?"

"It has to do with Tali."

At that, she pulls away from him and rises to a sitting position. He sits upright as well. "I thought it might," she says, staring at the floor. "Were you two…?" She looks up at him.

He nods. "We were close. When I thought she had died, I lost my way for a while."

She nods. "I see. And now?"

"Now… It's different. I'm glad to see her. I'm happy she's alive. But that's all."

"Are you certain? It can't be so simple as that. If you need more time…"

He shakes his head. "I don't need more time. I thought it was complicated, but it isn't. What she and I had… It's over, and that's okay. She doesn't remember, and I find that I don't want her to."

"So… I don't need to worry?" She looks at him, so earnest, so uncertain. He can see the moistness in her eyes. It's so… human. He wants to make her feel safe. He wants to be honest with her.

He takes her hand. "You don't need to worry. Besides, she thinks I'm a jerk."

She lets out a small sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob. "Sounds like her memory is fine."

He chuckles. "Thanks for the vote of support."

"Any time." She smiles, her eyes turning wistful. "It's strange how things work out, isn't it?"

"How so?"

Her fingers trace the lines of his hand. "You, me, and Tali. The three of us are linked. She came to me, years ago, when she was hurt and in need of help." He remembers. Fist's men shot Tali because she had information on Saren. His own investigation into Saren led him to Chloe's clinic. He arrived to find her threatened by Fists' men. Shepard was also there. "Then you found me. You saved me."

"Shepard helped."

"Yes. She helped. But she's not the one here with me now, is she?" She lifts his hand and presses her cheek to his palm.

"No. No she is not." He cups her face. "Thank you, Chloe."

"For what?"

"For being patient with me. For waiting… While I sorted things out."

She draws herself closer to him. "Haven't you been listening? I've been waiting much longer than that."

He wraps his arms around her as she nestles her head against his shoulder. He wonders what he has done to warrant such good fortune.

* * *

"I was starting to think you didn't want to kiss me again."

Shepard stands over the small writing desk near the bed. She's pulling carved pieces from a box and arranging them on a wooden chess board. "You've always had good instincts," she says.

"Excuse me?" Is she making a joke? If so, she's worse at it than EDI. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Shepard glances up. "Nothing." She sets a piece down and turns to her. "Thanks for coming up."

"Of course." Liara quickly surveys the display case, noting the addition of a new model. As she returns her gaze, her eyes catch on the absence of something. Her picture is missing. She scans the desk to see if it's simply been moved. No. It's gone. She frowns gently. "I'm only surprised that we haven't spoken sooner."

"Yeah. Sorry. Truth be told, I suppose I've been avoiding you."

Oh. She thought as much, but it still stings to hear it. "Why?"

"I've… had a lot of things on my mind lately."

"I trust I'm among them?"

"You are." She looks around uncertainly.

Liara walks past the display case. She thinks to ask why Shepard removed her picture, but suspects she already knows the answer. "You have concerns?"

"No… Yes. I wanted to apologize for what happened last time. I… shouldn't have let things go that far."

Apologize? She wants to _apologize_? "I seem to recall having been the one who kissed you, Shepard."

"I know. But I think I must have led you on. I made you think—"

"Stop it!" Liara's response comes harder and sharper than she intends. "I may be young, Shepard, but I'm no confused maiden. You wanted it just as much as I did."

Shepard sighs, running a hand through her hair. "Okay. Yes. But this thing… Maybe it feels real, but it isn't. It's like we're actors playing parts, following a script, reliving an old memory. Something. But it's not my memory, and I'm not actually… _her_."

"I don't believe that."

"Which part?"

"Any of it," Liara says, walking toward her.

Shepard watches her approach. "Believe what you want. As long as you believe it's over."

Liara raises a brow. "You say you're not her, but you certainly have her knack for cruelty."

"Maybe we do have that in common," she smiles grimly. "But don't read too much into it. The Shepard you knew is dead. She's not coming back."

Liara once thought so, too. She came to grips with it long ago, allowing the pain and loss to forge her into something stronger, harder, more focused. Then this _creature_ came along. She looks like Shepard, behaves like her, kisses like her. Goddess. She _tastes_ like Shepard—the old Shepard, not the husk Miranda cobbled together from chunks of burnt flesh and pieces of blackbox technology. Is she just another illusion? Liara reaches out to touch her face, but Shepard pulls away. Liara's features harden as her hand drops to her side. "Liar."

Shepard furrows her brow. "What?"

"You're a liar."

"I'm not... What are you talking about?"

"This isn't about you and me and your memories, Shepard. This is about that woman. Maya Brooks. Who is she?"

Shepard scoffs. "Brooks again? You sure do seem to be obsessed with her. I can try to set you up, if you like. You might have to go a round or two with Vega first."

"Don't be coy, Shepard. I know she's important to you."

"Important? She's just a staff analyst. She's nobody."

"You're right—she is nobody. She's a ghost. I've been looking into her past, and I can't find anybody who remembers her."

"Doesn't the Shadow Broker have better things to do with her time?"

"Stop evading the question, Shepard. Tell me the truth."

Shepard lets out a heavy sigh, bringing her hand to her forehead. "There's nothing to tell. I barely know her."

"Then why have you visited her quarters late at night? Why has she visited yours? How does a staff analyst that you barely know warrant such attention?"

"None of your business, T'Soni. This is my ship, and I go where I please and talk to whomever I please. I don't answer to you."

"Very well. If you won't give me answers, you leave me no choice but to fill in the blanks on my own. So let me tell you what I think. Maya Brooks is an ex-Cerberus agent. I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt on that count. I have to believe you wouldn't be sheltering an active Cerberus agent on the _Normandy_. Maya Brooks, however, is not her real name. What is it? Rasa? Hope?"

That strikes home. Shepard's eyes widen.

Emboldened, Liara continues. "So she's the one you were referring to in that first conversation we had after you revealed yourself to me, isn't she? I'd almost forgotten it myself, but I've had time to think back on everything you've said to me. Even you didn't seem to be sure what her real name was at the time. Are you any more certain now?"

Shepard says nothing.

"No?" Liara activates her omni-tool. "Well. I ran her face against my database. The analysis took all day. Would you believe it came up with thousands of hits?" She manipulates her haptic interface. A holographic display springs up and begins quickly cycling through selected images of Maya Brooks. "Perhaps that's not so surprising. It seems our meek staff analyst is quite the galactic citizen. I must say she's really gotten around in last decade, appearing in nearly every major system in the galaxy. Interestingly, some of the locations and timestamps would seem to directly contradict her service record."

Shepard glares at her. "Even if all this is true, what does it have to do with me?"

Liara smiles in thin-lipped satisfaction. "I'm getting to that. Your face, of course, is not present in any of these images, or anywhere else for that matter. Chunks of footage are conveniently missing. Deleted. It seems someone covered your tracks, whether purposefully or inadvertently. It may have been Miranda, or it may even have been your predecessor. Unfortunately, I allowed both access to the network. A foolish mistake on my part, but I don't give up so easily. I examined all the Brooks footage captured during the period after you… awoke, and before you came to the _Normandy._ I was looking for any clue, any pattern." She pauses. "And I found it." She punches some more commands into the omni-tool, narrowing the selection. The holographic display starts cycling through the images more slowly.

Shepard peers at the display.

Liara waits a few seconds. "Do you see it? In each of these images – and there are dozens – our Miss Brooks is with someone. It seems she had a constant traveling companion during that time." She pauses the display, freezing on one of the images. It shows Brooks walking through an Ilium promenade, accompanied by a square-jawed, freckled, ginger-haired woman.

"So?" Shepard shrugs, but Liara sees how she has paled, the same way she paled in the cafeteria.

"Are you going to deny it? I'll admit, it didn't occur to me right away, but the more I watched the footage, the more I watched the way she walked, the way she moved, her mannerisms, she took on a familiarity. That woman is Shepard. She's _you_. You must have studied Shepard quite diligently in those early days. Though I wonder how much of it just came naturally to you, the way identical twins can be separated at birth only to find each other later in life and discover they share certain gestures and small behaviors."

Shepard folds her arms. "You've put together a very interesting story. But it still doesn't prove anything. You said Brooks is Cerberus. Can you back that up?"

Liara shakes her head. "No. I admit, I haven't been able to directly link her to Cerberus, nor have I been able to discover her true identity. But this is the only thing that makes sense. Someone freed you from that Cerberus lab. Someone helped you get here. You couldn't have done it alone. It wasn't Miranda; as talented as she is, she can't be in two places at once. Still, you're right, I can't prove Brooks has ties to Cerberus. Of course, I could always forward what I have to Admiral Hackett—"

"No!" Shepard barks, her eyes suddenly burning green. Her arms unfold and her fists clench. The air feels charged. Liara stills, trying not to show her fear. Shepard stares at her for a long moment, green fading to hazel, then relaxes her hands and takes a deep breath. She walks to the bed and sits on the edge of the mattress, staring down at the floor. "You have to let this go, Liara." Her voice is small.

Liara sits beside her and takes her hand. "Don't worry. I won't say a word to Hackett or anyone. I can understand why that woman must be important to you, but I need you to understand that I won't be your fool. I played that role for too long." She pulls Shepard's hand upward and gently presses her lips to it. She waits for Shepard to pull her hand away, but she doesn't. "I don't accept that this is just muscle memory, or some old habit that we're falling into. It's more than that. If you think you I'm going to give up so easily, you're wrong."

"Clearly."

Liara smiles softly, but Shepard refuses to look at her. "So what's next?"

"Go." Her voice is choked. "You have to go. _Now_."

Liara considers refusing. Instead she squeezes Shepard's hand once and releases it. "All right." As she rises and walks to the exit, Shepard's head slumps into her hands.

* * *

Rasa is pleased that the hardsuit still fits. The morning workouts that she so hated dragging herself out of bed for have kept her lean. If anything, the suit felt a little loose going on, prompting her to cinch some of the straps a bit tighter than usual. She gave it the once over, making sure everything was exactly where and how it was supposed to be. Ultimately, she decided to leave the spare ammo pouch behind. No need for it. Her utility knife is strapped firmly to her right boot.

It's been weeks since she last suited up. She feels good—more like herself, which in turn only makes her nervous. This is when slip-ups happen. She can't afford to show her true face again. Not with Liara breathing down her neck. If anything, she needs to double down on the performance. Commit to the role to an even deeper degree, until the Shadow Broker starts to doubt herself.

James turns to her as she steps out of the elevator. He looks her up and down as she approaches, letting out a low whistle. "Daaaammmnnn, Flaca. You're wearing the hell out of that suit."

She does a slight curtsy. "Muchas gracias." They may have called things off, but it hasn't stopped him from flirting. She doesn't mind.

"De nada." He leans against the workbench. "Shit. I didn't know you had your own combat armor. I was going to get something out of the locker for you."

"Oh! Yes! No need. I picked this up a few years ago, but I've hardly had a chance to wear it." Half true.

He looks it over, this time with a more appraising eye. "Looks like it's seen some action. Get it used?"

"Yep. No way I could afford a new suit on my salary," she laughs.

"I hear ya." He nods. "All right. You ready to do this thing, Butter?" He picks a rifle up off the bench. An M-92 Mantis. A medium weight sniper rifle. Powerful and very accurate, but with a painfully slow rate of fire. Not the gun she would choose for herself, but a solid weapon. Many shooters have cut their teeth on the Mantis. She misses her Viper. It's currently in storage on the Citadel.

She looks around the shuttle bay. Cortez stand over by the Requisitions console. She glances up and sees Garrus watching from the Engineering deck. He nods. She waves. "You sure it's okay to shoot in here?" she asks.

A slight shrug and a tilt of the head. "The gun is set for target practice. We won't damage anything. Just don't shoot your eye out." He lowers his voice. "Oh, and maybe don't mention it to Shepard?"

She grins at him. "It'll be our secret." She's good at those. She looks down at the end of the shuttle bay, but doesn't see any targets set up. "No beer cans?"

"Nah. I figured we could do better than that. Cortez is hooking us up." He looks over to the Requisitions console and shouts. "All set, Esteban?"

"Good to go!"

He swivels back to her. "I'll go first," he says, nodding toward Cortez. "You can watch from over there."

"Oh! Will do." She hurries away and takes up a position near Cortez.

James stands in the middle of the bay. "Okay. Let do this!"

Cortez presses a button. A cluster of luminous amber orbs appear in the air above James' head. Ah. Holographic drones. "Go!" Cortez shouts. The drones – six of them – quickly separate and begin bobbing and weaving erratically through the air, up, down, left, right, sometimes momentarily dipping behind crates and shuttles.

James misses his first shot. "Puta!" he yells as he moves and turns, tracking the drones. He hits four in a row, then misses again before picking off the last two. Not great, but not terrible. He starts walking back toward the console, a slightly sheepish smile on his face.

She meets him halfway. "Gosh! You're really good!"

He shrugs. "Eh. I'm okay. Honestly, I'm more of a spray and pray kind of guy. Assault rifles, shotguns." He hands the rifle to her. "Anyway, that was eight shots. Show me what you've got, Butter."

When she's ready, Cortez releases a new batch of drones. They zip and swoop through the bay. She slowly turns clockwise, picking them off as she spots them, subconsciously tracking the ones that remain. _Pop, pop, pop_. Her fourth shot misses. Truth be told, it's not on purpose. She's rusty. But she can feel the adrenaline pumping. God. She'd forgotten just how much she enjoyed this. She continues turning, calmly aiming. _Pop, pop, pop_. She's disappointed when they're all gone. Vega and Cortez are laughing in amazement. She walks back with a big, stupid grin on her face. She can do better, but for once since she arrived on this ship, she's having _fun_.

James nods approvingly as she returns, still smiling. "Seven shots. Nice shooting, Butter. Very nice. Guess you're even smoother than I thought. Go another round?"

"You bet!"

They begin another round. While James is shooting, her omni-tool beeps. She looks. It's a message from Shepard on their private link. She reaches to open it, then hesitates. The last time she came running at Shepard's beck and call, she got her engine revved up only to get doused with cold water. Shepard said she needed time to figure things out. It hasn't even been a day. She hasn't figured out jack shit. It can wait. She mutes the link.

James returns and hands her the gun. He's beaming. He only missed once this time. She takes her turn. She also misses once, but it's on purpose. She's enjoying herself, but doesn't want to draw too much attention.

"Damn, Butter. I thought maybe the first time was a fluke, but you're _legit_."

"Not bad for a couple of amateurs," comes a voice behind them. Garrus steps out of the elevator and walks toward them. "Care to see how a pro does it?"

Rasa resists the urge to roll her eyes. James shrugs and hands the rifle over to him. "Be my guest, Scars."

Garrus looks to Cortez. "Let's make this more of a challenge, shall we? Ten drones. And increase the speed by fifty percent."

Cortez winks. "You're the boss." He punches the new parameters into the terminal.

Garrus walks out into the bay. "Oh, and set the timer."

James leans over and whispers. "This oughta be good."

Rasa nods absently. She's opened up Shepard's message. It's brief, but impactful: _I'm sorry. I didn't tell her, but she knows._

She knows. Liara knows.

Well, shit. That was fast. How quickly one stray look can cause everything to unravel. She should have left. She went against her instincts. She stayed too long, and now she's put Grace in danger.

She watches in a daze as Cortez releases the drones. They zip around in a blur, like a streaking, chaotic swarm of fireflies. Garrus is every bit as good as his reputation. _Pop, pop, pop_ , they all fall in sequence as he stalks them with efficient footwork and quick, precise motions. He allows himself one flourish as he twirls the rifle in his taloned hand before picking off the last drone. Ten shots, ten drones down. He looks to Cortez. "Time?"

"Seventeen point two seconds."

James lets out a slow whistle, shaking his head in amazement.

Garrus walks back. "And that, gentlemen and lady, is how it's done. You won't find another shooter in the galaxy who can do that. Not even Shepard." He goes to lean the rifle against the console.

"I'd like to try." Rasa is as surprised as anyone to hear the words come out of her mouth. _What the fuck are you doing?_ It's time to end this charade. She's tired of pretending.

All three men stare at her. Garrus speaks. "You sure, Brooks? I think you'll find Archangel is a pretty tough act to follow."

"Archangel? Oh. That's right. That's something you like to call yourself, isn't it?"

James snickers.

"Actually, Archangel is a reputation I forged in the blood of Omega," Garrus drawls. "But don't let that scare you off." He offers the gun to her.

 _Back down. Before it's too late._ No. She takes the gun. "I'll try to keep it together." She walks out to the middle and stands.

"You got this, Butter," James calls out. When Garrus looks at him, he just shrugs.

"Ready, Brooks?" Cortez asks.

 _It still isn't too late. Just tank. Miss everything. Miss badly. Shoot yourself in the foot—literally if you have to._ She can still salvage this. Let them all go on thinking she's incompetent. That she's Maya Brooks the shy, stammering klutz. _She knows. Liara knows_. Rasa takes a deep breath. The doubt washes away, leaving only the cool, calculating rage. "Ready."

The drones release. Time slows. She moves in what seems like a single continuous arc, unaware of the individual motions that she makes. When it's done, and time speeds back up, she's on one knee, the barrel of the rifle pointed above and behind her. She had to shoot the last drone blind, over her shoulder. She knows without having counted: ten shots, ten hits. She stands. Her shoulder hurts. It hurts like hell.

Nobody speaks. They seem dumbfounded. Cortez looks down at his display as she strides back confidently. Gone is the timid gait of before. Garrus asks Cortez for the time. Rasa doesn't care if she "won." She knows now that she can still make the shots. Her shoulder throbs, but it will continue to get stronger. That's enough for her. She's pleased.

"Sixteen point nine," Cortez announces in a stunned voice. She won by three tenths of a second.

"Um. Hrm," Garrus mumbles, his mandibles twitching uncertainly. His eyes measure her. "That was some damn fine shooting, Brooks."

She tries not to gloat. This wasn't really about the turian's self-aggrandizing. Garrus and the Alliance crew, especially James, are always engaging in one-upmanship. It's a diversion—stupid, but all in good fun. Still, she can't help but feel self-satisfied. "You know, _Archangel_ , just because you go around proclaiming yourself top gun in the galaxy doesn't make it so. Next time, save the fancy finish for the bedroom. Maybe Dr. Michel will be impressed." She twirls the rifle once and tosses it to him. He snatches it out of the air.

She turns to James, who stares at her in awe and bewilderment. "Thank you, James," she says with sincerity, before heading to the elevator. When she turns around, they're all still watching her. She presses a button, and the door closes. Once out of view, she presses both hands to the back wall and leans, exhaling. She made a mistake. She shouldn't have done that.

She can't go back.

She smiles to herself as the elevator inches upward.

* * *

The next place Maya Brooks appears is in the cafeteria. Liara sees the way she moves her arm and tries to massage her shoulder as she stands in the soup line, conspicuous in her combat armor. Whatever injury she suffered before coming aboard this ship still bothers her. The little shooting performance she just put on must have agitated it. Liara watched the contest from her office. Fortunately, Shepard's blocks on the video feeds don't cover wide open common areas like the shuttle bay and the cafeteria.

Brooks gets her cup of soup and grabs a piece of fruit as she leaves the cafeteria. She disappears from camera view once again. Liara could go look for her, but physically following her around the ship no longer seems like the most productive use of her time. Instead, she has committed herself to finding out whatever she can about the woman's past. Thus far, she hasn't been able to uncover any new information.

All she has is the video surveillance footage that she previously unearthed. She has only skimmed through it, which led to her finding many instances of the redheaded woman that Shepard has all but admitted to being. There must be more to be learned, but it will require a meticulous examination of all the footage. It will be time consuming, in addition to her other duties. She'll have to sacrifice sleep and recreation. She finds that it's a sacrifice she's willing to make.

She decides to start at the beginning of the time period encompassing the clone's lifespan. The hours pass as she clicks through the footage, frame by frame. She learns little of use. She thinks the clone may have gotten her bio-amp on Ilium. She makes a note to check into that later. Brooks undoubtedly would have tried to keep it off the books, but little can be hidden from Liara when she sets her mind to it.

She comes to a piece of footage from Omega. Hm. Now this is interesting. It depicts Brooks walking through a low-rent district, accompanied by a woman whose head is swaddled in bandages. The bandages and grainy quality of the footage prevent facial recognition analysis, but it's the clone. Who else would it be? She seems weak and miserable. An injury? Possibly. An operation of some sort? That seems more likely. Liara wonders what kind of tech is inside that head. She feels a twinge of guilt at the failed control chip scheme.

The footage continues. Brooks and the clone disappear into an apartment. Liara tries and fails to find footage from within the apartment. Frustrating. She can only fast forward through the hallway footage, looking for the next sign of activity from the apartment. Days pass, according to the timestamp on the video. Eventually, Brooks exits the apartment by herself. She left the clone alone in that state? Perhaps she needed supplies. She thinks to try to track where Brooks went, but sets that aside for now, instead continuing to focus on the apartment.

About an hour later, a turian and a batarian approach the door. They're well-armed and geared. Mercenaries? Liara peers at them. Yes. Blue Suns. She feels an icy fury start to build as she watches. The mercs look around warily before pushing the door open and going through, with weapons drawn. Nothing seems to happen. Less than an hour later, Brooks returns. She looks apprehensively at the door, seeming to gather herself before opening it and entering the apartment. The footage cuts off soon after that. Liara checks to see if anything was picked up by other feeds in the area. No such luck.

So what happened in that apartment? The mercenaries entered, but did not appear to leave. Why were they there? The Blue Suns are a highly disciplined organization. They do not randomly rob apartments in slum districts. Liara has her suspicions. Fortunately, she also has the means to find out. The yahg had agents within the Blue Suns organization at the time, just as Liara does now. Whatever was in the Blue Suns databases should be in her archives.

With just a few searches, Liara finds what she needs. Yes, the Blue Suns were hired to kill a human woman in that apartment at that time. Specific instructions were given that it was to be exactly two experienced mercs that carried out the job. No more, no less. The person who ordered the job was a woman named "Carter." They didn't meet her in person. She paid an extravagant sum for the job. The two mercenaries never reported back in.

Liara paces the room, clenching and unclenching her fists, anger radiating from her in thin, blue wisps. She swats at Glyph when he asks what's wrong. Who is Maya Brooks? She still has no idea, but she's damn well going to find out.

* * *

Rasa nurses the scotch, drinking alone in the bar of the lounge room. The room is perpetually abandoned, unlike Purgatory where aliens and humans from all walks of life can't wait to dance, drink or fuck their problems away. That the _Normandy_ runs with a smaller crew than it should contributes to it. Perhaps it's different to be onboard the ship of the mighty Commander Shepard. Maybe the war's pushed on long enough that laughter and leisure seem a betrayal.

Her shoulder aches from the contest she had earlier with the boys. It was reckless to show off that way. Is this how Grace felt when she didn't know who she was? The roulette of identities has always been a comfort but this one she's worn too long and she's rattling at the chains, desperate to be out of them. It won't be long now. Liara bloody knows. No doubt the bitch watched her little display in the shuttle bay. Fuck. It was stupid. If she'd kept playing the idiot she might have underestimated her. Now she's lost some of her advantage.

Her wrist remains bruised from T'soni's previous asarihandling. Was she ever that way with Shepard? She doubts it. Asari: the delicate flowers of the galaxy that strip their way into mercenary and political professions. Rasa never cared for their vested interest in the arts and humanities. Their placidness bores her. Yet, something about them appeals to Shepard. Appeals to Grace. She tried to prevent it from happening. Old habit from working with Cerberus, perhaps. Was it wrong for her to want someone to stand for humanity first? Yet she found her in that theater, watching asari porn.

No emotional connection necessary. It's hardwired. Liara and Grace may not have slept together but they know what it's like. Grace said it's her memories that make her who she is. If she remembers their time together it's as good as having lived it. Not that she needs memories to subsist. She's making new memories with Liara. They've kissed. Perhaps more. It's infuriating. That it happened was to be expected. That she thought for an instant the pull wouldn't be there… More grating is the stab she feels at the thought of it. She's acting like a goddamn amateur.

The facts are as follows: Shepard won't kick Liara out. As much as she pretends that it's only the resources the Shadow Broker offers that leave her hands tied, Rasa knows it's more. She knows that Grace will stop the Reapers.

It's all she's got. It's all she should need.

For the tenth time in the last hour, she considers leaving the ship. James and Garrus know she's more than what she appears to be. Why did she bloody read that message? Why couldn't she have fucking relaxed for once? Did she expect some decision from Shepard? How stupid. How long can she cling to this identity? She massages her temple. She's never been one to shy away when the odds are stacked against her. They've always been stacked against her. But this is different. Now she's risking Shepard and her reputation. That's bloody unacceptable.

Doubt pools in her stomach like acid. She's disgusted at how invested she's become. This was never meant to happen. Grace was meant to be a project. Grace was only ever meant to be Shepard.

She remains in her bodysuit. She's not stupid. No doubt Liara will be along soon to challenge her. The suit is outfitted with biotic hardening. It helped her against Miranda in the past. It always throws biotics off when their targets are slippery. Liara may have been a scared archeologist before but Shepard changed her. When she died, Liara hardened. She became aggressive.

Rasa isn't afraid of Liara T'soni but it doesn't mean she won't take precautions. The asari is a competitor for Grace's affections. She isn't oblivious to the fact that the asari could crush her with her biotics, if given the opportunity. But she's handled biotics before. The only challenge Liara represents is her zeal to keep and protect Shepard. It's personal for Liara. But it's personal for her, too.

The door to the lounge room hisses open. Rasa finishes her drink and sets the glass down. She faces her. Liara's face is tight and cold. Rasa stands. There's a sharp whirr and Rasa recognizes the sound of electronics being disrupted. This exchange won't be recorded. There's a fizzle and a pop and the lights flicker off, replaced by a red flash, plunging them into darkness, flashing red again. Tick. Tick. Tick. Emergency lighting. Liara's come after her. She discards the pretense. "I was wondering when you'd come find me."

* * *

 _Shepard,_

 _We've had something of a breakthrough. Dr. Cole struck upon the idea of chemically inducing a stasis effect to prevent the keepers from self-liquefying. Upon reflection, I recalled that I had made a copy of all of Mordin's research data before he left the Normandy. Using his notes, we were able to synthesize a crude version of the venom utilized by the Collector seeker swarms. We conducted our first field test this morning, with limited success. The test subject remained fully intact for several seconds before liquefying. Not enough time to do any meaningful experimentation or learn anything important about keeper physiology, but nevertheless a promising start._

 _I'll be following up with a full progress report in the next day or two. Given that this is the first real headway we've made, I confess to being eager to share the good news. I'm optimistic that with some improvements to the stasis venom formula and some trial and error with the dosage, we'll soon have a path forward to uncovering whatever secrets these creatures hold._

 _Best Regards,_

 _Miranda_

 _P.S. Congratulations on your Rannoch success. It seems I may have underestimated you._

Shepard closes the email. So, Miranda isn't as useless as she was starting to think she was. Good. Of course, time will tell if the project even pays off, but it's good to know that it has a chance, at least. If nothing else, it keeps Miranda out of her hair for a while longer. She has enough problems to deal with. It's unfortunate that her goddamn love life has become so prominent among those problems.

She considers lying down and taking a nap. She's tired, but she hasn't been able to get much sleep. Thoughts of Liara and Rasa plague her brain continuously. It's a problem some people might say they'd like to have, if they were in a joking mood. She thinks maybe she'd like to switch shoes with those people for one day. Maybe one of them would be smart enough to figure this shit out and save her the trouble of doing whatever she needs to do.

What she really needs is a distraction. Fortunately, the _Normandy_ is headed to the Kypladon System. Traynor informed her that the refueling station on Cyone has gone dark. Shepard doesn't need to be told how vital the depot is to the Alliance fleets. Though she's sure Hackett will mention it anyway during the briefing. They should be there inside a day.

Tali has asked to be considered for the away team. She wants to be made a part of the squad rotation again, just like old times. Heh. Old times. Shepard, at least, has the luxury of appreciating the irony of the term. Tali still does not. She does seem to have moved on from mourning her father. So young, and she's lost both of her parents. It occurs to Shepard that her own "mother" is still out there, and she's never—

There's a short burst of static, and then Joker's voice. _{ Uh, Commander? I think you're going to want to get down to the crew deck. There's something going on in the Port Observation lounge. }_

Shepard stands. "What is it?"

 _{ Not sure, Commander, but it can't be good. EDI says her sensors in there are fried. }_

What the…? Shepard's out the door and stepping into the elevator. "What happened? Who's in there?"

 _{ Uh. Apparently, Maya Brooks was in there, enjoying a beverage. Then Liara came in, looking all pissed off, and she took out some sort of device, and the room went dark. I think I'm glad I'm not Maya Brooks right about now. }_

Fuck. "I'm on it." She steps out of the elevator and dashes over to the lounge. She almost collides with the door when it fails to slide open. "EDI. Can you override this door?"

EDI's voice. _{ I'm sorry, Commander, I cannot. }_

Damn it. She tries to gain purchase, squeezing her fingers into the seam between the doors. It's useless. She can't get the door open. She presses her ear to the door. She's not sure, but she thinks she hears a crash. Shit.

Shit shit shit. "EDI. Tell Vega to grab a crowbar and get the hell up here."

A long pause. _{ Lieutenant Vega has been notified. He is on his way. Would you like the assistance of my mobile platform as well? }_

Shepard thinks quickly. "No. Stay with Joker."

 _{ Very well, Commander. Let me know if you change your mind. }_

Shepard turns around. A crowd is starting to gather in the hallway. Whatever the fuck is going on in that room, she can't afford to have it be a public spectacle. She doesn't have to put on an angry face. She's already furious beyond measure. Hopefully, the fear doesn't also show. "Get the fuck out of here! Go back to your workstations. If you aren't on duty, go to your quarters. _NOW!_ "

That does the trick. They start to disperse. A moment later, Vega steps out of the elevator, carrying two crowbars. Thank fuck. He jogs in her direction, tossing a crowbar at her as he draws close. She grabs it.

"Something I've been dying to ask, Lola. Top or bottom?"

"Not now, Vega." She goes low. "Get to work."

* * *

Her natural voice, deeper and accented, takes Liara aback. It's the voice of a woman, not an inept child pretending to be a grown up. The red emergency lighting continues to flicker in and out, plunging them in and out of darkness.

"You knew I was coming. Which means you've spoken to Shepard. But she's not here now."

Liara whips her hand out, palm wrapped in blue, lighting them both in the dark. A biotic wave hurtles towards her. Nowhere to move. The liquor and glass in the cabinet behind her slams back, shattering. She only gets a slight nudge thanks to the hardened weave enmeshed in her suit. She congratulates herself on having the foresight, on the look of frustration on Liara's face. "I have no interest in fighting you." Well, that's a lie. She'd love to rip her head off but the last thing she needs is more evidence of her capabilities.

"A pity I don't agree." Liara moves toward her, looking more like some emotionless justicar than a scientist. "I know what you tried to do on Omega, 'Carter!'" Liara reaches her and while Rasa tries to identify what the hell she's on about, Liara lands a brutal blow. Her nose erupts in blood. Shit. It's broken. She holds a hand out, catching some of the geyser. It'd be funny if it didn't hurt so much. "You ordered a hit. After her operation. She was vulnerable." Oh. That. "You nearly killed her!" Her eyes are watering.

It's an opening. They're plunged into darkness but Rasa knows where she was. She stomps on Liara's foot, ignoring the blood running down her nose. She punches straight at Liara's neck. Habit. Liara's fast and Rasa's grateful. If she'd hit at full impact her airway would have collapsed. But the blow did damage. Liara makes some awful wheezing sound. "Let this go, Liara."

"Not on your life."

Another flare of biotics and Rasa feels her feet lift off the ground. Fucking shit. She panics momentarily. But the mods come through again. She is momentarily disoriented, however, and it's all Liara needs. She throws a punch, fist crushing against her face. The biotic field that contained her comes crashing down with her. For an instant she thinks she's passed out, knocked out cold, but the red flicks on again just in time to see Liara slam down into her shoulder. She grimaces.

Liara is cold. She has her reasons. Rasa sifted through her history, much like Liara searched through dig sites looking for old relics and answers. She grew up fatherless and with a mother too invested in politics. A mother who was eventually indoctrinated and killed by her and Shepard. Shepard, her first lover, died at the hands of the Collectors. The woman who returned was abusive and incompetent. Of course she wants to keep this Shepard. She can't begrudge Liara for it. Even if the asari had so much more than she ever did. Liara wraps her fingers around the neck of her body suit, a touch of biotics and she's yanked her to her feet. "You want to kill me?" Rasa asks.

"I want answers. I want to know who you are."

"You think if you hit me enough I'll tell you?" She's been tortured before, for matters of smaller importance and she hasn't broken. "You won't ever know who I am." Perhaps no one ever will. The light is distracting. Red. Black. Blue. Fitting, perhaps. "You've got a stick up your ass because I ordered a hit. Because I'm moving in on your territory. I was vetting her. I needed to know that she had what it takes. But you, you saw what she was, you knew the good she could do and you were content with chipping her and stripping her of her free will. At least I was willing to give her a chance." Liara tenses before she throws her with a growl. Rasa flies into the wall, hitting her head and arm, leaving her momentarily dazed. Rasa laughs, sinking lower. Liara approaches with purpose. "Do you know how Grace laughs at your lovesick puppy routine?" Lies. Lies have always been easy. "After everything you've done," she nearly chokes on the words, despite how she smiles, despite how it hurts, "do you think she could ever love you?"

Liara lunges forward, wrapped in tendrils of biotic power. So. Some things can get under her skin. She's the same way. Cold all over, except when it comes to her. She reaches to her boot and withdraws the knife, throwing herself to the side and turning just as swiftly. She grabs Liara's arm and twists it behind her back. She knows how to neutralize asari. Let her try to use her biotics now. She shoves her face first into the wall, keeping her pinned. She brings the knife to her neck, until it bites. It draws blood. "Shh, shh, shh." She whispers. She can taste blood on her teeth and lips. "You want to know something about me?" Liara is hard, sweating now. "I'm merciless. I'm no one. I have nothing to lose. That's what makes me dangerous." She holds Liara's arm tight despite how her shoulder burns, how she's damaging it even now. "I could split you open right now. But that woman you're fighting for? The one you loathe me for molding? She's got a war to win and unfortunately she is of the opinion that you're a necessary resource." And maybe she's right. Liara isn't expendable. Replaceable. Not like she is.

There's a sound of metal screeching. Grunting. It all sounds far away. Tick. Tick. Tick. Rasa ignores it. They stand there, bleeding and pressed together, breathing hard. She considers killing Liara. She'd love to kill the bitch. But it would crush Shepard. It would distract her. It would be petty.

The throbbing of her shoulder becomes unbearable. Her grip loosens. Liara rips free, slams her elbow into her face. Instinct makes Rasa swipe with the knife, just grazing along Liara's ribs but enough to pull a small cry out of her. Liara strikes out with another biotic throw and Rasa staggers back, weakened, falling to her knees. She looks at Liara's bloodied face and armor, the cut dripping blood down her neck. Her skin has already grown purple and black from the blow.

The door to the lounge screeches open. Shepard and James, flushed from exertion, walk in, crowbars in hand. The room is destroyed. There's blood everywhere. She and Liara pant heavily. Tick. Tick. Tick.

"Dios fucking mio," James says. "What the hell—" he looks to Liara, back at her, then back to Liara. "You all right, Blue?"

"Staff Analyst Brooks and I were just having a chat." Blood runs down her nose and side, looking black in the red light.

Rasa's legs tremble, but she won't fucking kneel like she's been beaten. Shepard looks at her anxiously. Rasa shakes her head, pushes to her feet uncertainly. She wobbles and Shepard goes to her, arm around her waist, touch so ginger on her face, peering at her. The concern on her face makes Rasa love her more. She tells herself to forget it. It's nothing she'll be able to keep. "Jesus. Are you all right?" She doesn't look at her. Can't look at her. How did they get to this? How did she get so fucking sloppy? Her eyes burn. Sweat in her eyes? Blood? She can't see anything but her. She should be watching James. She would be watching Liara. She should be monitoring the situation.

"Let me go," she murmurs, though the words are grainy and she doesn't know if they're intelligible. "They're looking."

"I don't care. We need to get you to the med-bay—"

"I'm fine…!" It isn't a shout so much as a guttural growl. She pulls away from Shepard. She's fucking bled all over her. Something about that makes her want to cry but maybe she's felt nothing for too long. She doesn't know how to respond to emotion. No tears come out of her. Shepard stands back helplessly. Her leg trembles. Her ankle hurts. It's swollen. She suspects she landed on it wrong when the warp bubble broke. She pushes but she can't help a slight limp. She wipes at her nose but the blood keeps coming. Her bottom lip split, cut on her teeth from Liara's elbow. What must she look like now? A fraud. Some ugly fraud. "Don't worry," she tells them, her voice not quite her own. "I'm getting off at the next stop."

This pretense has gone long enough. She's a hindrance because she wants to be close to her. That's not fair. How stupid that that's what makes her eyes water. She slips past the gap in the door and leaves them. The few crewmembers scattered around look at her, terrified. How will she explain it? She won't have to explain it. She'll be gone soon enough.

* * *

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant," Dr. Michel declares, blocking the entryway. "You can't see her right now." If Rasa were a different person altogether, she might laugh at the sight of the petite woman standing in the way of the mountainous James Vega.

Vega peers over the medic to where Rasa lies on her cot. "Come on, Doc. She's right there. I just want to talk to her."

Michel shakes her head. "Commander Shepard left specific instructions—"

"It's okay, Doctor," Rasa says. "Let him in." She's been holed up in here for the last two days, recovering. They're just a couple hours away from the Citadel. Soon she'll be gone. If there's anybody who deserves an explanation before she leaves, it's James. Not that she can offer much of one.

The doctor looks at her warily. "But the commander said you were not to be disturbed."

"That was just for my privacy," Rasa says, readjusting the incline of the cot with her free arm. "I'm fine. Please, let him in. I don't mind." She sits up straighter.

Michel pauses uncertainly before relenting. "All right," she steps aside, stretching out an arm. "But don't get too comfortable, Lieutenant."

"Thanks, Doc." James walks past her and over to Rasa's bedside.

"Hi, James," she offers, feeling vaguely ridiculous at the nasally sound of her voice. Her broken nose has been reset and there's a splint attached to her face with gauze and tape.

"Brooks," he nods. Not Butter. Not Flaca. _Brooks_. Stupidly, she feels a flush of disappointment. He looks her over, eyes lingering on the bandaged shoulder and slinged arm. Liara, the clever bitch, went right for her weak spot. All the rehabilitation work she did with James, undone in one fight. Shepard persuaded her to let Dr. Michel operate on it again. "Looks like the doc patched you up."

"Yeah. Couple of days, I'll be good as new." Hopefully this will be the final setback with her shoulder. Rasa initially refused the surgery out of a mixture of anger and pride. Then the adrenaline subsided and the full brunt of the pain came crashing in. At a certain point, pride becomes indistinguishable from stupidity. The bottom line is she needs her shoulder to be functional. Besides, Shepard _is_ the person who fucked it up in the first place.

Michel interjects. "Don't rush your recovery, Staff Analyst. I expect you to take it easy and keep that sling on for at least a week. If you reinjure it, I won't be around to fix it again. The good news is that once it's fully set, your new shoulder will be better than ever." Rasa can't say she minds the sound of that. When Dr. Michel suggested a microfiber weave to bolster the shoulder's damaged muscles, Shepard didn't have to push too hard to get her to consent to the implant.

"Thank you, Doctor," Rasa replies. "Um... Do you think you could give us a few minutes?" She nods toward the door.

"Kicking me out of my own med-bay?" She laughs softly. "Very well. I'll give you two some privacy." She looks at James and holds up a hand, fingers wide. "Five minutes, Lieutenant."

He raises both hands in surrender. "Got it, Doc."

Rasa waits until the door closes behind Michel before speaking. "Look, James, I know you must want answers—"

"Damn straight I do. How about you start by telling me what the hell that was between you and Blue?"

"That was… personal."

"No shit. I figured that much out. You two obviously have some fucked up _triángulo amoroso_ going on with the commander. Normally I'd think it was hot, but not when it turns into a literal bloodbath. I mean, I know Lola is a hot piece of ass, but _goddamn_."

She sighs. She doesn't want to lie to him any more, but she can only say so much. She can start by not denying her personal relationship with Shepard. "You're right," she says. "There's more to it. Liara was angry because of something she thought I had done to Commander Shepard in the past."

He frowns. "Did you?"

"Yes. But it was something that Shepard and I had already made our peace with. That's all I can say."

He nods and brings a hand to his chin, rubbing at stubble. "So. You and Lola. You have history."

"Yes."

"But you've both been pretending you don't. Why?"

She looks down at the cot. "I can't answer that."

"Right. Of course not." He paces. "You showed up Garrus down in the shuttle bay, which is something I never thought I'd see. Then you got into it with Liara. I've been in a couple of scraps with Blue at my side. She's serious business." He looks at her. "I'd say she got the better of you, but not by much, which means your hand to hand skills are no joke. What are you? Some kind of spook? Special Investigations? Some off-the-books black ops outfit?"

She just continues looking down at the cot. She wishes she could cop to one of those. The truth is worse than he thinks.

"Are you even Alliance?" Frustration crawls across his features. "Ex-merc maybe?"

It won't be long before he gets around to guessing Cerberus. "James…"

He waves her off. "Don't bother. At least you had the sense not to let things go too far between us. I bet you had a real good laugh over that."

"No! James—"

"Was anything you told me the truth?" His voice is rising. "Were you just stringing me along for fun? How much—"

"James!" For fuck's sake. She's built her life around not having to deal with this kind of drama. Normally she's long gone by the time anyone figures out her game. Normally, she doesn't give a shit. James looks like maybe he's going to storm off. She doesn't want him to. She tries to reach out for his arm, but just ends up grimacing at the sudden stab of pain in her shoulder. She grits her teeth. "Just… shut up and listen for a minute, would you?"

He stands still, glaring back at her, nostrils flaring.

She continues. "What I said to you before about not having any friends was true. That shouldn't be hard to believe." She offers a wry smile. "You've been good to me when you didn't have any reason to be. I was flattered. You're brave. You're honest." Foolish qualities. Admirable qualities. "And you're not bad to look at. Believe me, I was… tempted." She sighs. "I never meant to hurt you. I'm sorry I can't tell you everything, James. But I thought you should know how highly I think of you, before I go."

He furrows his brow. "So. You're really leaving?"

"Yes."

"You know, I think the commander gave Blue a pretty good reaming. I don't think she'll come at you again."

"I know." She doesn't know. "It isn't about that. It's... I just don't belong here."

He shrugs. "We've had all types aboard this ship. We've got a Prothean for Chrissakes. And he's an arrogant prick. I'm sure you can make it work."

She shakes her head. "I can't. Not any more."

Dr. Michel reenters the room. They glance over at her. She taps her wrist. "Wrap it up, James."

He nods, then turns back to Rasa. "All right, Butter. If your mind's made up..."

"It is."

He extends a hand. "Okay. Take care of yourself."

She takes it. They shake. "I will. Thank you, James."

He releases her hand. "I know the real reason you're leaving."

"What's that?"

"You don't think you deserve her." She frowns slightly. "And maybe you don't. I dunno. I hope you find whatever you're looking for out there."

As he walks away, Rasa's gaze drops to the floor. It's as good a place as any to start.


End file.
